


Some Like It Hot

by JenTheSweetie



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1920's AU, AU, Dirty Talk, F/M, Gen, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Threesome Pairing, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: A lot of stories start with "a man walks into a bar", but these days a lot of stories that start that way end pretty badly.Steve tries not to think about that too hard as he approaches the door off the alley just past the corner of 55th and Broadway.  The alley smells like grease and garbage and everything else a New York City alley usually smells like, and when Steve opens the swinging door there's nobody in the storeroom of the deli.He takes a left at the canned peas, and the second door is there, right where his source said it would be.  He tries the knob, and it turns easily and opens into a dingy staircase that nobody's cleaned in a long while.  It's dark, and Steve wonders for a minute if they're open, but then he hears it - the clink of a glass, the low murmur of conversation.  He's in the right place.It's not exactly reassuring.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This story was truly co-authored with Snapjack. She was part of the inception and the plotting, she contributed a massive number of plot points and ideas, and she literally wrote entire chunks of it. And then, of course, she cheerleaded me through writing the rest of it. I couldn't and wouldn't have done it without her! <3 Thank you, as always, for everything. 
> 
> This WIP is actually complete - there will by 4 chapters, posted over the next two weeks. Thank you for reading!

A lot of stories start with "a man walks into a bar", but these days a lot of stories that start that way end pretty badly.

Steve tries not to think about that too hard as he approaches the door off the alley just past the corner of 55th and Broadway.  The alley smells like grease and garbage and everything else a New York City alley usually smells like, and when Steve opens the swinging door there's nobody in the storeroom of the deli.

He takes a left at the canned peas, and the second door is there, right where his source said it would be.  He tries the knob, and it turns easily and opens into a dingy staircase that nobody's cleaned in a long while.  It's dark, and Steve wonders for a minute if they're open, but then he hears it - the clink of a glass, the low murmur of conversation.  He's in the right place. 

It's not exactly reassuring.

The speakeasy at the bottom of the stairs is a lot like the ones he's seen before, though without all the bullet holes in the walls.  It's dusk, and though a few tables are occupied the bar's empty.

"You lost?" says a voice from the shadows, and Steve barely stops himself from jumping.

"Stan sent me," he says as a man steps into the light.  He's clearly the muscle of the joint: narrowed eyes, thick neck; Steve can't make out a weapon but he assumes it's there.  

The muscle looks him up and down, and Steve looks at him right back.  "Welcome to the Black Widow," the man says finally, and steps back into the shadows.

Steve nods, and crosses the room to take the seat at the bar as far from the muscle as possible.  It's not that he's nervous - if the muscle wants trouble, he probably has more to fear than Steve does - but he'd prefer not to be too memorable if he ever comes back under different circumstances.

A large blonde bartender sidles up to him, wiping out a glass.  "A drink?  Not that we have any," he says, and then laughs loudly at his own joke.  

"Whisky, rocks," Steve says.  

The bartender reaches under the bar.  "Haven't seen you around here before."

"Stan sent me," Steve says warily.

"Oh, I don't care about the password," the bartender dismisses, his heavy Scandinavian accent not masking his amusement.  "I'm just here to make sure everyone has a good time.  The Hawk's the one who steps in when someone's having a _bad_  time."

"The Hawk?" Steve says.  

"At the door," the bartender says, nodding toward the muscle.  "Sees everything.  Doesn't talk much, until you get to know him - then he never shuts up."

Steve glances over his shoulder, then looks back at the bartender.  "You been working here long?"

"Long enough," the bartender says.  "1920 wasn't a _great_  year for a man who likes to make his living serving drinks to come to America, but it could be worse."

"Tell me about it," Steve says, accepting his whiskey with a nod.  

"So," the bartender says cheerfully, "what's a law enforcement officer like yourself doing in a place like this?"

Steve chokes on his drink.  The bar, already quiet, goes absolutely silent.  Steve can _feel_  heads turning his way.

"I'm not a cop," Steve says.

"Oh," the bartender says, wrinkling his nose.  "Really?  Are you certain?"

"Completely," Steve says.  The back of his neck burns under the fiery gaze of every single person in the joint.

"I mean, _I_  don't mind," the bartenders says jovially.  "The Hawk, on the other hand - "

"You want to come with me?" the Hawk says in Steve's ear.

Steve straightens up slightly, keeps his breathing shallow.  He'd prefer not to make a scene, but he will if he has to; he can't lose out on yet another potential lead, not now, not when he's so _close_  - 

"Let me rephrase," the Hawk says.  "This ain't a request.  Stand up."

"Look," Steve says, "there's been a misunderstanding, I'm not - "

"Ease up, Barton, he's with me."

Steve and the Hawk both look around.  A man Steve's never seen before, dressed to the nines and wearing a hat that probably cost as much as Steve's monthly pay, stands under the one bright light in the whole bar.  

"You know this guy?" the Hawk says, jerking his head at Steve.

"I said he's with me, didn't I?" the man says lightly.  "Grab your drink, pal."

Steve doesn't hesitate; he slides out of the Hawk's reach and follows the man in the ridiculous hat to a table in the corner.  

"Sit," the man says quietly, gesturing to the booth across from him.  

"Thank you," Steve says, sliding into the booth.  "For the record, I'm not - "

"A cop?" the man says.  "Yeah, I heard.  What's the technicality?  Special investigator?  Private eye?  I can keep guessing.  Or we could always ask the Hawk what _he_  thinks."

Steve takes a sip of his drink and looks around.  The Hawk is still watching them, but nobody is in hearing distance.  "FBI.  But I'm not Prohibition unit."

"Good thing, too, 'cause if you were you'd have been terrible at it," the man says, leaning back in his seat, his eyes raking Steve up and down.  "Odinson had you made in five seconds flat."

"I'm not here undercover," Steve says quietly.  

"You know what's funny?  I believe you," the man says.  "You look like you're here because you _want_  to be here.  This isn't business."

"No, it's not," Steve says.  

The man takes a sip of his drink.  "What's your name?"

Steve raises his eyebrows.  "I just told you I'm an officer of the law.  What makes you think I'm gonna tell you my name?"

"The fact that I just saved you from a pretty thorough beating," the man says.  "Not that you don't look like you can handle yourself, but - "

"Why _did_  you do that, anyway?" Steve says.

"You want the real answer, or the safe one?" the man says.  "The name's Tony Stark."

"Stark?" Steve says.  "What, you mean like that big ugly building down on - "

"Exactly," Stark says, smiling.  "So, now you know the name of a famous industrialist who hangs out at speakeasies.  Care to return the favor?"

Now that he's said his name, Steve recognizes the man from the papers.  "Industrialist?  That what they're calling war profiteers these days?"

For the first time, the man's easy smile slips.  "I got out of weapons in 1916," Stark says.  "Any more questions?"

Steve has plenty, but none of them are relevant to why he's here in the first place.  "I'm here on my own business.  I appreciate you helping me out back there with the Hawk, but I need to get back to it."

"Suit yourself," Stark says.  "It's too bad, I was about to buy you another drink.  You never know when a dirty cop could come in handy."

Steve slams his glass down.  "I'm _not_  - "

"I know," Stark interrupts.  "I was just messing with you.  There's _tons_  of perfectly legitimate business to get up to in a bar.  Plenty of upstanding gentlemen around."

"And ladies."  From out of the smoky gloom, a woman glides up to the table.  Her dark red hair is done up in tight, close-cropped curls, and her dress leaves just enough to the imagination.  "I hear we have an unexpected visitor."

"Miss Romanov," Stark says, flashing his teeth at her.  "So good to see you, as always.  How's business?"

"Booming," Miss Romanov says dryly.  "Can Thor get you another?  Not on the house, for the record."

"You run this place?" Steve says, surprised.

"He's elephant ears?" Miss Romanov says to Stark.

"Complicated," Stark says with a smirk.  "I'm still getting to know him."

"I'd like to discourage you from reporting me for illegally procuring and selling alcoholic beverages," Miss Romanov says.  "You'll find it won't go very well for you."

"I wasn't planning on it, ma'am," Steve says.  

"In that case, welcome to the Black Widow," Romanov says, and with one last glance at Steve, floats away.  

-

Natasha walks upstairs, slowly, pausing on the first floor to take the temperature of the slow-simmering argument between the married Ukrainians who keep--and sleep in the back room of--the deli that is her business's (admittedly thin) disguise. It sits on top of her bar like a cheap hat, cocked over the eye of the entrance, and to a certain eye, draws attention to what's below. That's fine. Natasha made a choice, a long time ago, between discretion and brazen outlawry, and she's never once regretted that choice. Besides, make a speakeasy too subtle, and the drunks can't find you. 

On the second floor, Mrs. Letendre stands, hair silvering in the steam, over a boiling tub of diapers, tending to the sanitizing wash and a fuming kettle of cabbage simultaneously. She has flung open all the doors and windows in her family's tiny apartment to deal with the sweltering heat, and she nods to Natasha without recognition, her spectacles as befogged as a lobsterman's. 

Third floor, the heat building as she climbs, Natasha hears the clamour of the Krajnc family with their six daughters and fox terrier, all of whom, by the sound of it, are future opera singers. 

Fourth floor, the silent bachelor who moved in last night, bringing with him a suspicious lack of luggage and a name that sounds like a fake ("Banner"). Natasha is looking forward to scraping his brains off the walls in a few days, assuming he hasn't already offed himself. She _does_  hope he picks something noisy enough to draw attention, rather than just waiting for the smell to be his death notice. 

Fifth floor is hers. It’s large enough to be divided into two apartments, if the occupants shared the lavatory, but Natasha likes her privacy, almost as much as she likes her security. There are three locks on the door. She undoes all three carefully, listening for creaks on the other side of the door, looking for a shadow punctuating the line of light that's there. Standing carefully to the side, she lets the door fall open. 

There’s no one there. Her parlor is as she left it, dark behind thick velvet drapes. She turns on a lamp, picks up her ivory cigarette case, and shakes one loose, frowning at how few are left. She rests it on the exact center of her lip and lights, shaking the match out and dropping it into a jade vase. Taking a deep drag, she begins undressing, expertly slithering out of her gown without disturbing the burning coal at the tip of the cigarette. Leaving a trail of clothing behind her, she wanders down the hall to her bedroom, where she swings her wardrobe door open and begins working on her brassiere closure, the column of ash growing at the tip of her gasper. When the hands pin her arms behind her, she stiffens but does not panic. 

"What took you so long?" she mumbles around the cigarette. 

"I was enjoying the show," Clint responds. He works her wrists around until he's got her pinned one-handed--with the other, he slides a blindfold over her eyes. She stands stock-still. Clint snugs the bandana in place; then, his hand drops to graze over her rump, gathering up a handful of the ivory silk slip she's wearing. "You wearing anything under this?" he asks. 

"Find out," Natasha tells him. 

Clint pulls the slip partly up as he kneels on the floor behind her, one hand now loosely tangled in hers, the restraint a matter of trust rather than force. He runs his fingers up the inside of her left thigh, making an appreciative noise when he gets to the top of the fawn silk stockings and encounters nothing but creamy white skin, framed by chocolate brown garters. His fingers just brush over her wet, red curls, then keep going down the inside of her right thigh, ending at her ankle, which he wraps warmly in his hand. 

"Grab ahold of the top shelf," he tells her, and Natasha obediently reaches for the edge of the shelf. Her cigarette drops a column of ash on her left breast, stinging her, and she jumps and whimpers but does not move. Rising quickly behind her, Clint brushes the ash away, and, in a gesture that makes her shiver, takes the cigarette from her lips. She hears him take a drag behind her, feels his exhale on her shoulders as she's wreathed in two rippling banners of smoke. His voice comes from behind her. 

"You've been bad today."

She flinches even in advance of the belt, which lands with a fat leather thwack. She gnaws her lip against the advance of tears, which are already brimming in the corners of her eyes. 

"You've been flirting."

_Thwap._

"With Stark."

_Thwap._

"With your meathead bartender." 

_Thwap._

"With that new cop."

_Thwap._

"You know what it does to me when you flirt." 

"Makes you hard," Natasha gasps, sassing Clint back even as he works her bare ass red with his belt.

"Don't be smart-mouthed with me," he says, flicking her around the insides of her thighs till she jumps and yelps for mercy. Then, dropping the belt at his feet, he steps forward against her ass, soothing her skin with his rough hands as he lets her feel the full press of his erection, barely restrained through his pants, against her ass. 

"Shh." 

His fingers brush against her lips. The cigarette. "Here." 

Natasha gratefully takes it between her lips and draws. 

His lips brush her ear. 

"It _does_ make me hard." 

"Prove it," Natasha says, just to goad him, and is rewarded with a hand in the hair at the nape of her neck, the silvery sound of a zipper, and finally a long slow thick slide, pressing inside of her. She groans in satisfaction and relief as he begins to stroke her, tugging her into an arched pose by the hair. 

"You keep your hands on that shelf," he tells her as he yanks her hips into his, increasing the pace. 

"Yes _sir_ ," she tells him, knowing she is the unquestioned authority. Knowing he would die for her. Knowing she holds the key to every one of Clint Barton's orgasms on her tongue. "I was thinking about you, while I was flirting with Thor this morning." 

The tactic works--he tightens his grip on her threefold, slamming into her violently now. "Were--you--now," he says, his voice rough. 

"I was," she says, panting as she thighs tighten in anticipation of the waves of pleasure threatening to swamp her. "I was thinking he might take me on the bar."

"Fuck," growls Clint. To punctuate it, he bites down on the tendon between her neck and shoulder, worrying the tender flesh there as he slides a hand around her to press her lips open, finding her clit.

"Would you like to watch that?" she asks. "Watch his big Nordic balls bouncing as he pounds me? See him pumping his white load all over my ass?" 

_"Fffffuuuuuuuuuccck!"_  Clint hisses, letting loose a flood into her. He collapses out of her and she gratefully lets go of the shelf, letting him pull her into the bed in collapse. She loosens his tie for him, nicely. She'll let him lick an orgasm out of her once he catches his breath. He cracks one eye and peers at her.

"No fairsies, bringing Thor's balls into it." 

She smiles indulgently. Clint's many proclivities are an open book to her. "How was I to know?" she says innocently, batting her eyelashes at him, and is not a bit surprised when he seizes a pillow and, ignoring her squeals, drives her off the bed in a blizzard of feathers. "Stop!! Stop!! I'll be good, I swear," she says, laughing.

"No you won't," he says, lighting a second cigarette for her and another for him. 

"No," she agrees, taking the offered gasper. "I won't."

-

"So," Stark says after Romanov's disappeared into the back room of the Black Widow, Barton hot on her heels, "I noticed you still haven't left, even though everybody here knows you're the fuzz _and_  you turned down a bribe."

"You didn't try to bribe me."

"I implied I might," Stark says, "and you were pretty clearly not interested, so I'll save my money. You're not here to bust us or to collect a payoff, but I'm guessing you didn't wander in on accident, either.  So what's the deal?"

"Not sure why it matters to you," Steve says.

Stark swirls his glass and takes a sip.  "You were Army in the war.  Commissioned officer, obviously - what were you, first lieutenant?"

"Captain, actually," Steve says.  "What's that got to do with - "

"And now you're a civil servant, a slave to good ol J. Edgar, because you don't know how to do anything else, do you?" Stark says.  "You've never been anything but Uncle Sam's good little boy."

"You don't know anything about me," Steve says coldly.  

"So what's important enough to make you want to come in here and risk all that?" Stark says.  "Or maybe it's _who's_  important enough?"

Steve goes stiff, and the glass in his hand makes an ominous _cracking_  sound, but doesn't break.  Stark looks down at it and whistles softly.  "That's quite a grip you've got there, Captain," he says in a low voice, and when Steve meets his gaze it feels like Stark can see everything he's thinking, all the way down.  

There's a creak from the other side of the bar, and the door swings open.  A man in a long, scruffy coat and a fraying hat looks around nervously and then takes a seat at the bar.  

Stark follows his gaze.  "That guy?" he says, sounding puzzled.

Steve throws back the rest of his drink and slams the glass down.  "Thanks again for the hand back there."  

"Hang on a second - " Stark says, but Steve's already gone.

"Dr. Banner?" he says, sliding into the seat next to the man with the scruffy coat.

Banner jumps slightly, and when he looks at Steve he ducks his head.  "Who are you?"

"Name's Rogers," Steve said.  "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Can I stop you?" Banner says wryly.

"Not really," Steve says, waving down the bartender, Odinson.  "Another whiskey for me, and whatever my friend here wants."

"A tonic water as usual?" Odinson says, and Banner nods curtly.

"You don't drink?" Steve says, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

"No, not really," the other man says.  "It doesn't tend to end well for anyone."

Steve wonders what that means, and why, if he doesn't drink, he's risking spending time in a speakeasy, but Steve isn't here to satiate his curiosity about Dr. Bruce Banner.  He's here for answers.  "I need to talk to you about something."

Banner sighs.  "Who sent you?"

"Who sent - what?" Steve says.  "Nobody sent me.  I'm here on my own."

Odinson brings their drinks and slides back down to the other side of the bar; Steve has a feeling he can still hear them, but he appreciates the show of discretion anyway.

Banner takes a swig of tonic water.  "I'm not sure what you're looking for, but you should know that my connections to - certain people aren't what they used to be."

"That's actually why I'm here," Steve says.  "Word on the street is your loyalties have... shifted."

"More like been forced to shift, but sure," Banner says.  

"I think you might know somebody I used to know," Steve says quietly.  "Somebody I'm looking for."

Banner glances at him, and he looks hunted.  "I don't know a lot of people.  Not anymore."

"This was before," Steve says, and his heart pounds.  "A while ago.  During - "

"Can I get a scotch, neat?" Stark says loudly, sliding up to the bar on Banner's other side.  "Hi, there.  I'm Tony Stark, haven't I seen you here before?"

"This is a private conversation," Steve growls.

"In a public place," Stark counters, and Steve wants to _punch_  him.  "I _have_  seen you here before.  Quiet, always sits at the bar, makes eyes at Romanov.  Banner, right?"

"Nice to meet you," Banner says, looking down at his glass.

"Yeah, you too," Stark says.  "So, you get a name out of our FBI agent friend here?"

Banner whirls on Steve.  "You're a cop?"

"That's not why I'm here," Steve says quickly.  "Stark, do you mind?"

"Not at all," Stark says, backing away with his hands up.  "Just thought you might want to know, Banner."

"I've gotta go," Banner mumbles, backing away from the bar. 

"Wait," Steve says, trying not to sound desperate.  "I'm not here to make trouble - "

"You don't need to, trouble always finds me," Banner says.  He pulls his hat down so the brim blocks his eyes and heads for the door - 

And then backs up quickly, so fast that he slams into the bar.

"What," Steve starts, and then freezes as Aldrich Killian walks in the door.

Everybody knows Aldrich Killian.  He runs half the speakeasies in Manhattan and sells an even higher percentage of the guns, and anybody who tries to stop him usually ends up swimming with the fishes at the bottom of the East River. The FBI's lost three good agents to his men this year alone.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Killian says with a smile as four goons fill in behind him.  "Funny seeing you here, Tony."

Steve glances at Stark, who has a funny look on his face.  "Aldrich.  It's been a while."

Steve takes stock of his surroundings.  The bar, he realizes, is nearly empty - in retrospect, people started filtering out sometime after his altercation with the Hawk - and it's just him, Banner, and Stark, grouped together in front of the bar.  Even Odinson has disappeared.  There are four of them, though Steve has a feeling Killian himself won't get his hands dirty; it won't be easy but he should be able to take at least two of the bodyguards at once, and if anything he's heard about Banner is true, then - 

"Too long," Killian says.  "You know who owns the establishment you're patronizing?"

"I don't take much stock in who supplies the hooch, I just drink it," Tony says.  "Hell, I even visit your bars once in a while."

"Not recently," Killian says, and his eyes are ice cold.  

The door behind the bar swings open, and Miss Romanov walks out, looking supremely unconcerned.  "Can I get you a drink, Mr. Killian?"

"I'd love one, sweetheart."  Killian winks at her, and Steve's stomach curdles, but Miss Romanov just smiles blandly and pulls out a bottle of gin.  "We can count it toward your late payments."

"You're gonna be waiting a long time, Mr. Killian," Romanov says sweetly as Barton and Odinson file into place behind her.  She slides the glass of gin across the bar, and Killian picks it up and slowly lifts it to his lips.    

"Not that long," Killian says.  "You sure you want to do this in front of your customers, honey?"

Romanov looks at Stark, Banner, and Steve and arches an eyebrows.  "I like the kind of customers who can take care of themselves."

Stark snorts.  "All right, Aldrich, we get the picture, you wanna take this little show of strength to somebody who cares?"

"It's so interesting, Tony," Killian says.  "For someone who doesn't get his hands dirty himself, you sure never have worried about putting others in harm's way.  Boys?"

One of the thugs behind Killian steps toward Stark, and what happens next is a blur: one second Stark's standing still, and then next his hand's up.  There's a _blast_  and the scent of gunpowder and, in the wall above Killian's head, a gaping, smoking hole.

"That's gonna be expensive, Stark," Romanov sighs, and that's when everything goes haywire.

One of Killian's men takes a running jump at Stark, but Steve dives in front of him and catches the goon with a right hook to the jaw.  The man flops backward, and one of his friends steps in to take his place; Steve swings again and again, listening to Barton go head to head on his left and Odinson on his right.  The fourth guy seems to be weighing his chances against Banner, who's still sitting on his barstool, and Stark, whose arm is smoking a little from the whatever-it-was that blew up a minute ago.  Killian, of course, is no where to be found.

Steve takes a kick to the ribs and flops back against the bar.  "Miss Romanov," he says firmly, "you may want to remove yourself from the situation."

"Over my dead body," Romanov says.  She ducks under a bodyguard's swing and snags his wrist, then twists his arm behind his back.  "Clint?"

"Oh, this'll be fun," Barton says, spinning away from his own thug to slam the heel of his hand into the nose of the one Romanov's got pinned.  Steve blinks at her, then springs back into action; he hauls one of the men away from Banner just as Odinson throws a third into a table.  

"Can somebody just hold still for a second while I reload?" Stark calls out, and as Steve spins away from a punch he sees Stark fiddling with his armband.

"That thing's more dangerous than it's worth," Steve snaps.  "You could - "

Stark fires again, and Barton barely jumps out of the way of a fireball.  "Goddammit, Stark!" he yells, taking out his anger by throwing another punch.  

"On your left, Rogers," Banner calls out, and Steve looks up just in time to see the fourth bodyguard approaching him with a switchblade.  

Steve falls into a crouch, and when the man with the knife dives he goes low and takes him out at the knees; they scuffle on the floor, and Steve's just about to stomp the knife out of his hands when somebody comes from behind and sucker punches him.

Steve sways; it doesn't hurt bad, but he's distracted for long enough that the switchblade swings up and catches him in the shoulder.  Pain blossoms down his arm, and the man holding the knife yanks it out and prepares another blow - 

And that's when Banner comes out of no where and slams into the man holding the knife.  He goes down _hard_ , and stays down.  Steve stumbles back toward the bar, watches as Odinson stands guard over one prone man, Stark keeps his smoking armband trained on another, and Romanov stands with her stiletto tip - pointier than Steve thinks they usually are - poised over the neck of a third.  

And in the middle of it all, Banner, whaling on the fourth man, fists flying, the sickening crunch of bones breaking and the wet thumps of blood vessels popping - 

"Banner," Barton says, crossing the room.  " _Banner_."

Banner looks up, startled, his lips pulled back in a snarl.  Below him, the man bleeds freely and looks damn near unconscious.

"I'd prefer not to have to get rid of any bodies tonight, if you don't mind," Barton says, holding his hands out like he's calming a wild horse.

Banner lowers his fists.  "Sorry."

"Everybody okay? _Not_  you," Stark says, keeping his weapon trained on the man in the corner.  

"Somebody stabbed the cop," Miss Romanov says.

Everybody turns to look at Steve.

"I'm okay," he says, as blood seeps through the fingers he's got pressed over his shoulder.  "Let's get these guys out of here, huh?"

Barton and Odinson supervise the men's speedy exit - Odinson throws Banner's opponent over his shoulder, hauls him up the stairs, and drops him at the door without ceremony - and Romanov pours a round of top shelf whiskey as Banner eases Steve's suit jacket off him and inspects his wound.

"I'm fine," Steve says again.

"Heard you the first time, Cap," Stark says, standing superfluously at Banner's shoulder as he cleans the wound with moonshine.  "You get stabbed often?"

"Once or twice," Steve says, accepting a full glass from Miss Romanov even though he knows it won't dull the pain.

"It's pretty deep," Banner says.  "I know you don't want to draw attention, but it might be worth seeing a doctor who can - "

"Just wrap it up nice and tight, it'll be fine," Steve says.  "Sorry for bleeding on your floor, Miss Romanov."

"Consider us even," Romanov says.  

"Killian and his boys stop by often?" Stark says, leaning against the bar.  

"Once in a while," Barton says.  He grabs a glass of whiskey and settles down in a chair gingerly.  "It's usually not quite that fun."

"That thing you've got," Banner says, nodding at Stark's arm as he tightens Steve's bandage.  "What is it?"

"Little of this, little of that," Stark dismisses.

"Thought you said you got out of weapons in '16," Steve says.

"Self-defense isn't weapons manufacturing," Stark says, pulling off the arm band and slipping it into his pocket.  "I'll pay for the damages."

"Damn right you will," Barton grumbles.

"So it seems like you're really not here on the job," Romanov says, looking Steve up and down.  "Killian would have been a huge catch for the boys in blue, and you let him walk right out of here."

"Always said I wasn't here on business," Steve says.  "I don't have a problem with your establishment myself, ma'am.  Don't care much about temperance, and driving it all underground just created space for the likes of Killian to get even more powerful.  The bureau would love to get something on him."

"How about, _one of his men just stabbed you_?" Barton says, rolling his eyes.

"Might've worked if Rogers was here undercover, but considering he's off the clock, that'd raise a lot of questions," Stark chimes in.  "Anyway, Aldrich's paid off half of City Hall.  He could have somebody stabbed in front of the Chief of Police and he'd walk out with his nose clean."

"You seem to have a history with him," Steve points out.

"Not one I'm interested in getting into," Stark says.  He takes a swig of whiskey.  "We didn't make such a bad team here.  Whaddya think, Romanov, want to get all of us on the payroll?"

"Free drinks tonight enough?" Romanov says.  

"It was our pleasure," Odinson says, starting to sweep of the mess of broken glasses on the floor.  "Truly."

"I should go," Banner says.  

"Wait," Steve says, "I need to - "

But Banner's already grabbed his hat.  "Night, ma'am," he murmurs to Miss Romanov, and disappears up the stairs.

"He'll be back," Miss Romanov says.  "Try again tomorrow, Rogers."

"Password won't have changed?" Steve says with a half-smile.

"As long as you don't bring any friends from work," Romanov says.  Steve tips his hat to her and, slinging his ruined jacket over his injured shoulder to hide the blood spattering the white shirt, climbs the stairs.

He makes it all the way to the alley before he hears footsteps behind him, and he spins around to see Stark striding out of the back room of the deli.  "That was good, what you did down there," he says.  "Natasha doesn't need much help - "

"I noticed," Steve says, thinking of her stiletto.

" - but she appreciates it when she gets it," Stark says.  "And so do I."

Steve shrugs.  "Guess we're even now."

"Guess so," Stark says.  He holds out a hand.  "You ever need anything, you know where to find me.  It's the big ugly one a few blocks away."

"I'll keep it in mind," Steve chuckles, and shakes his hand.

Stark squeezes once more, and then steps back and nods.  "See you around, Cap."

Steve shakes his head, steps back onto Broadway, and disappears into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve doesn't plan to go back to the Black Widow.

Last night was a close enough call, there's no reason to tempt fate again; even if he _does_  find Banner, the man shut down as soon as he started asking questions, and there's no reason to believe he might open up now.  It's not worth the risk, Steve decides firmly.

Which is why he's as surprised as anyone to find himself swinging open the door to the Black Widow just before midnight.

Steve can tell by the wave of sound that hits him as soon as he hits the stairs that it's crowded tonight.  Some of the Black Widow's patrons have clearly been partaking of Miss Romanov's high-quality hooch for a while already, and the air is thick with smoke that gives the light a hazy sort of glow around the edges.  

"Welcome back," Barton says as Steve takes off his hat at the bottom of the stairs.  "Gotta admit, I didn't expect to see you again."

Steve shakes his hand.  "Busy night?"

"Fridays always are.  It's funny how many folks care a little less about the Constitution after a long week," Barton says.  "Stark's at the same table as yesterday."

"I'm not here to see him," Steve says.

Barton shrugs.  "Just thought you might want to know," he says blandly.

"Rogers!" Odinson booms as Steve slides in between a couple of ladies who are sipping martinis.  "Good to see you!"

"You too, but would you mind keeping it down a touch?" Steve says.  "Be nice if there were a few people around who _didn't_  know my name."

"Your secret's safe with me, friend," Odinson says.  "Whiskey?"

"Sure," Steve says, glancing around.  "You haven't happened to see Banner around tonight, have you?"

"Not yet," Odinson says.  He slides Steve a glass across the bar as, in the corner, a three-piece jazz band starts warming up.

Steve leans forward.  "You got any idea why he doesn't drink?"

"Perhaps he believes deeply in temperance," Odinson says seriously, and then throws back his head and laughs.  "I've no idea.  He's a man of mystery."

"Well, he sure can throw a punch," Steve says.  "If you see him, can you let me - "

"Care to dance?"

Steve whirls around to see Stark, his hip cocked against the bar and a sly grin on his face.  "Pardon me?"

Stark jerks his head at the band.  "C'mon, I love this song."

"Very funny."

"Not joking.”  Stark leans forward, his eyes mischievous.  "This is the kind of place you can get away with something like that, you know.  Miss Romanov's very... understanding."

Steve fights back a blush and settles on a scowl.  "I'm happy where I am, thanks."

"Suit yourself," Stark says, and waves at Odinson for another drink.  "So, you still trying to get something out of Banner?"

"Are _you_  still sticking your nose into things that aren't your business?" Steve says coolly, taking a sip of his drink just for something to do.  

"Dr. Bruce Banner," Stark says.  "PhD from Columbia in chemistry, Army science division from '14 through '19.  Got mixed up in something messy with the daughter of a colonel, then dropped off the map for a while.  Word is he spent some time working for Blonsky's operation down in Harlem, but the last couple of years are thin on details."

Steve stares at Stark.  "A millionaire like you doesn't have anything better to do than dig up the entire background of some guy you just met?"

"A millionaire like me has plenty of people who can do the research for him," Stark says.  "What I _can't_  figure out is what _you_  want from him."

"Guess all that genius only goes so far," Steve says.  "You still carrying around that noisemaker you brought out last night?  What kind of gun is that, anyway?"

"Not anything you learned about in the Army, soldier boy," Stark says.  "It's a prototype.  Experimental."

"Oh yeah?  Well, last night's experiment didn't go so well."

"I look at it as an opportunity for growth," Stark says.  "How's you shoulder doing?"

"What?" Steve says. 

Stark glances at it meaningfully.  "Your shoulder.  You know, the one that got stabbed last night?"

Steve tries not to shift on his barstool.  "Oh.  It's all right.  Doesn't hurt too bad."  

"You didn't seem particularly concerned about it last night." 

"It's not the worst hit I've taken," Steve says curtly, and he's being honest, though not in exactly the way he wants Stark to think.  

"No, I imagine it’s probably not," Stark says.  "So is it his wartime service or the mob stuff?  Banner, I mean - which part are you interested in?"

"I feel like I've been pretty clear that I'm not interested in talking about this with you," Steve says.  

"Because they say a lot of things about what Blonksy gets up to," Stark says, like Steve didn't say a word.  "Weird things.  Things the army tried out during the war and gave up on when they got too dangerous.  Brainwashing.  Drugs that make men docile, or compliant, or strong enough to - "

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Steve says.  "And you probably wouldn't want to, either."

"You'd be surprised," Stark says.  He throws back the rest of his drink.  "Just be careful, Rogers.  Wouldn't want a nice kid like you to get caught up in something ugly."

And then he reaches out to squeeze Steve's thigh under the bar, winks, and disappears into the crowd.  

One of the funny things about not being able to get drunk, Steve reflects as the night goes on, is that it's almost like being camouflaged.  He can blend right into a crowd, down drink after drink, let people think he's just as zozzled as everybody else, while his eyes and ears stay sharp as ever.  It's not a cheap disguise, but he's pretty sure Odinson's not charging him full price, anyway.

"Having fun?" 

Miss Romanov leans across the bar, biting her reddened bottom lip.

"Plenty," Steve says with a lopsided grin.  "Quite a turnout tonight."

"Well, we welcome all sorts," Romanov says archly.  "You're here to see Dr. Banner."

Steve feels his false smile slip a little.  "I wouldn't mind having a chat with him.  Do you know where he is?"

"Yes," Romanov says.

Steve leans in close.  "I don't mean him any harm, ma'am.  I think he might be able to help me."

"I get the feeling he doesn’t like crowds," Romanov says.  

"I can meet him anywhere he wants," Steve says.  "I just need a few minutes with him.  And I think - I think I might be able to help him, too.  Can you tell him that for me?"

Romanov holds his gaze.  "Tell him yourself.  Tomorrow, 3 o'clock, before the bar opens.  The door'll be unlocked."

"Thank you," Steve says gratefully.  

"Don't mention it," Romanov says, and shoots him the first genuine smile he's seen from her.  

Steve smiles back as she sashays to the other end of the bar to murmur something in Barton's ear.  The room is packed full of people - people dancing, and talking, and laughing, and suddenly Steve feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb.  

He shoves his drink across the bar and picks up his hat.  Nobody looks up as he slides through the crowd, murmuring "pardon" as he squeezes past dancing couples and into the hallway.

"Leaving so soon?"

Steve tries not to sigh.  "Some of us have work in the morning."

Stark chuckles softly.  "That's right, you're a federal agent on the straight and narrow.  I must have forgotten."

Steve spins around.  "You need something, Stark?"

"Yeah, I do," Stark says.  He advances on Steve in the dim hallway.  "Romanov might not think you're here to cause trouble, but I don't think I trust you, Rogers."

"The feeling's mutual," Steve retorts.  

"Well, you've got good instincts, then," Stark says.  He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes another step forward.  "Natasha's good people.  I don't want anything to happen to her or this place, and if anything does, I know exactly who to look for."

"Didn't I take the first swing at Aldrich Killian's men last night?" Steve says.

Stark leans even closer, and Steve holds his ground.  The other man is completely in his space now, their bodies nearly touching at the chest.  Stark's lips are slightly parted, and if Steve leaned forward he could -

Stark sniffs and then pulls back.  "Funny," he says.  "You've been drinking all night, but I can't even smell it on you."

Steve takes a step backward, swallowing hard.  "Guess I can handle my liquor better than most."

"Guess so," Stark says.  "Have a good night, Cap."

Steve just turns on his heel jogs up the stairs, and even though it's as hot as New York City ever gets in the middle of the night, Steve thinks, it's a lot less heated than it was in that dingy stairwell under the firebrand gaze of Tony Stark.  

-

Natasha watches Stark slip through the crowd after Rogers and tries not to roll her eyes.  If she cared about either of them even a little bit, she'd be embarrassed for them.

"What do you think of him?" she murmurs, holding out a cigarette for Thor to light.

"Rogers?" Thor says, pulling out a match and striking it on the bar.  His arms gleam with sweat and ropy muscles; Natasha allows herself a very blatant moment of appreciation.  "We get plenty of that sort in here, the lawman turning his nose up at the law, but he seems..."

"Different," Natasha says.  "I thought the same thing."

"So you don't intend to have him killed?" Thor smirks.

"Not just yet," Natasha says, and runs her nails along his forearm lightly.

Thor smiles warmly at her; he's seen her play this game before.  He's brighter than he looks, her Norwegian boy.

"You'll close up?" she says quietly.

"As always, miss," he says under his breath, and she presses an air kiss to his cheek and heads for the back stairs.

Clint's silent behind her - he always is; it's one of his myriad skills - and she's quiet too as she climbs toward her apartment.  The noise of the bar fades quickly as she climbs, lost in the rumbling of automobiles and the yowl of cats, and she’s about to knock on his door when it opens right in front of her.

Banner stops short when he sees her.  A raggedy towel is draped around his neck.  "Hello," she says.

"Ma'am," Banner says.  His gaze drops to his feet, and Natasha would feel sorry for him if she hadn't seen him nearly kill a man with his bare hands the night before.  She wonders vaguely which half of him is an act.  

"It's not too loud for you to sleep, I hope," she says.

"No, not at all," he says, glancing up at her and then away quickly, like he's afraid she'll catch him staring.  The poor thing; she already has.  "I was just, uh.  The shower."

"Of course."  She taps the ash from her cigarette, and his eyes focus in on the orange tip in the dim hallway.  "Rogers came by looking for you tonight.  I sent him away."

A series of hard-to-catch expressions cross Banner's face: terror, relief, gratitude, discomfort.  "Oh.  That's - good.  Thank you, I - "

"I told him to come back tomorrow," Natasha continues.  "3 o'clock, before the joint opens."

Banner opens his mouth.  "Why - "

"It's important to him," Natasha says.  "And he helped us out last night.  I don't know how he got information about where you are, but I'm guessing it cost him something, and coming here looking for you might cost him a whole lot more."  She blinks at him innocently.  "It'd mean a lot to me if you gave him a couple of minutes."

Banner shifts from one foot to the other.  

"He might be able to help you," Natasha says, taking a shot in the dark.

Banner laughs, and Natasha realizes with a shiver that it sounds more like a growl.  "Nobody can help me," he says.  "But yeah, sure.  I'll talk to him.  Sure."

"Thank you," she says, more quietly than she means to. He nods jerkily and reaches for the door, presumably to close it behind him so he can make his way to his shower.

She smiles.

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?" she says, and sees from his startle reflex that the question was entirely unanticipated. Interesting.  For a man with lips like an Italian poet and a frame like a Nebraska farmhouse, he acts like he's Quasimodo.

"What are you doing," he says, like he's lost. "Your man is right there in the hallway watching us from the shadows, he's been there since you got here. You tryna get me killed, Miss Romanov? Because I think you'll find that's not going to go well. For either of us," he adds as Natasha steps forward into his space again.

"Oh no, nothing so boring," Natasha says, smiling and running her nails gently down his belly. "Clint and I have an arrangement. A mutually satisfactory agreement. He likes to watch, and I like to play. Neither of us are into jealousy. Or pain," she clarifies, withdrawing her nails. "But I can see you're ill at ease, so I'll let you take your shower."

Heading out of the apartment, she pauses and looks back, noticing approvingly that he hasn't moved from his frozen position. "Think about it," she says.

Finding Clint at the base of the second flight of stairs, she leans in for a kiss, which he gives her easily. "You're fixing to give that poor shy bastard a heart attack," he breathes into her mouth as she pulls away.

"I hope not," Natasha says, and pulls Clint's tie from its clip. "I want you to see him go down on me first."

Now it's Clint's turn to look dangerously empurpled. "Get upstairs, woman," he growls at her, and crowds her heels the whole way there.

-

The Ukrainian woman behind the counter doesn't even look up as Steve passes through the deli the next day, and Steve has to hand it to Miss Romanov: she's bold as brass, running a barely-operating sandwich shop above a speakeasy in the smack dab middle of Midtown.  It's so obviously a front, Steve thinks, that people must assume it's _too_  obvious and walk right past.

The gin joint is empty when Steve pokes his head inside, dim and hushed like a cathedral. Or a crypt.  He runs a finger along the bar and it comes away clean.  The only sign that the place was just 12 hours ago a hotbed of sin and sinners is the lingering scent of moonshine and the scuffs on the floor.  

"Hi."

Steve turns slowly.  Banner hovers in the doorway; he's wearing his jacket but no hat, and his too-long hair curls around his collar.  

"Afternoon," Steve says.  "Thanks for meeting with me."

Banner shrugs and eases into the barstool next to Steve.  "Miss Romanov asked me to come.  She seems to believe you're not here to bring me in."

"She's a smart lady," Steve says.  "I just have a couple of questions."

"That's exactly what I'm worried about," Banner sighs.  "But I'm here now, so.  Shoot."

"You served in the science division during the war," Steve says.  "You were involved in weapons testing."

"More or less," Banner says.  "Chemical weapons, mostly.  Some medical technology.  We did gas masks for a few months like everybody else.  You interested in the weapons?"

"No, not really."  Steve shifts in his seat.  "It’s - I had a friend who went missing during the war."

"Lotta people went missing during the war." 

"Not that kind of missing," Steve says.  "He was involved in some - some secretive business.  Declared MIA in '18, but he never came home in a box or otherwise."

Banner glances at him.  "I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm not sure what - "

"I don't think he's dead," Steve says.  "I think he got mixed up in something he shouldn't have, and I think - I think he may still be out there working for some really bad people.  People that you may have worked for too."

"I don't work for those people anymore," Banner says slowly.  "And if your friend still does, he'd probably be better off if he _had_  been killed in action."

Steve doesn't flinch.  "You may be right.  But I need to know."

Banner fiddles with the edge of his jacket and looks up at Steve.  "Emil Blonsky doesn't let his people socialize much.  You come in, you do your work, and if you're lucky you go home at the end of the night in one piece.  Your friend - "

"Barnes," Steve says.  "James Barnes."

"Never heard of him," Banner says, and Steve slumps a little, because he can tell the man's not lying.  "But then, I don't expect I heard many real names in five years on the inside.  I never meant to - there weren't a lot of options left to me, after the war.  Peacetime doesn't call for a lot of chemical weapons specialists, especially not after what we - Blonsky was willing to pay.  If I kept my head down I could just about pretend I didn't know what he was doing."

"No offense, Dr. Banner, but you're small potatoes," Steve says truthfully.  "A scientist who hasn't even been in the game for a year or two - that's not gonna get me promoted.  I just need to know which operations Blonsky's running that call for - for specialized talent.  Men who are more than just hired guns, men who - "

"Men who are the weapons themselves," Banner says. 

Steve pauses.  “So you know about - ”

"Yeah, I know."  Banner takes his spectacles off, rubs the bridge of his nose.  "Who do you think helped Blonsky with his research after the Army cut him off?  I thought - I thought I was helping.  I thought, maybe if they could control those boys - "

"Where are they?" Steve says quietly.

"I came off the project three years ago," Banner says.  "There was an... incident.  But back then they operated out of Washington Heights.  The things they're doing - "

"Could you get me in?" Steve says.  

"No," Banner says.  

"I'll make sure they don't know you were the one who - "

"You know they keep track of you bureau boys, right?  They catch you so much as walking by their front door, and - "  Banner shakes his head.  "I'm sorry, but there's no way.  If your friend's still alive, you'll have to find him a different way."

Steve stares over the bar into the cracked mirror for a minute, then turns back to Banner.  "Dr. Banner, forgive me for saying so, but you're... familiar with Blonsky's work.  Intimately familiar, even.  Am I correct?"

Banner shifts on his barstool.  "I don't know what you're implying, but - "

"And me," Steve continues, "I'm familiar with it, too.  Different organization, different goals in mind, a little more government-sanctioned, maybe, but at the end of the day, we both came out of it different than we went in.  You and me, we're cut from the same cloth."

"I wouldn't say that," Banner says quietly.  

"I would," Steve says.  "And what you did, in his service - what was done to you - it's not as important as the decisions you make.   _That's_  what defines you."

There is a long silence.  Banner clears his throat.  "You know what?  I agree with you, in principle.  So here's a question.  Have you considered the possibility that _I'm_  the one who did what was done to me?"  Banner pushes back from the bar and pulls his coat more tightly around him.  "You still have a chance to keep yourself out of this, Rogers.  I'd suggest you take it."

And with that, Banner disappears just as he arrived: without a sound.  Steve stares at his reflection in the dim glass for a long, long time before he picks up his hat and heads back up to the street.

-

“Rogers!  In my office.”

Steve jumps up from his desk and ducks into the office.  “Yes, sir?”

From behind his desk, Director Pierce leans back in his chair.  “Shut the door, son.  Come sit down.  How’s the Zemo case coming along?”

“We think we’ve implicated him in another jewel heist in New Jersey,” Steve says, settling himself in the chair across from Pierce.  “I’ve got field agents interviewing witnesses now, but we’re pretty confident we can add it to his file.”

“Good, good,” Pierce says.  “Now, I have a question for you, and I need you to think very carefully before you answer me.  What do you know about Aldrich Killian?”

“Same as everybody else,” Steve says, thinking of the nearly-healed stab wound in his shoulder.  “Bootlegging, weapons, hits - be hard to find anything below board in New York that doesn’t come back to him.”

“Mm,” Pierce says noncommittally.  “And Emil Blonsky?”

Steve holds very still.  Pierce’s gaze is level, and gives absolutely nothing away.  “Not much.  Couple operations out of Hoboken, last I heard, but I’ve never worked his case.”

“I didn’t think so,” Pierce says.  “And we don’t know of any connections between Blonsky or Killian and Zemo, do we?”

“A couple backroom deals here and there, sure, but nothing major that I’m aware of,” Steve says slowly.  

“Interesting,” Pierce says.  “Because the records department let me know this morning that you recently took out _both_  their extended files for examination.  And if you’re not looking at connections between them and your own subject, I’m not sure why that would be.”

Steve doesn’t so much as blink.  “Got curious, sir.  Zemo’s smaller time than the other two, but he’s ambitious.  Thought there might be a roadmap to what he’ll be trying to - ”

“Because the way it looks to me,” Pierce interrupts, “is that you’re trying to punch a little higher than your weight class.  That you’re angling for a promotion.”

“With all due respect, that’s not it at all, sir,” Steve says.  “The agents on the Killian and Blonsky cases do good work, and I wanted to see what I could learn from their methods of - ”

“I’m aware,” Pierce says, “that you got some special treatment during the war due to what you signed yourself up for, Rogers, but you should know by now that special treatment doesn’t exist here at the bureau.”

“I’ve never asked for - ”  

“Because this is about more than one man, no matter what kind of man he is,” Pierce says, his eyes ice cold.  “We have a very important mission here, and every single one of us is just a cog in the machine.  If you’re not interested in the case we’ve assigned you, there are always other options.  I hear they’re looking for agents at the Kansas City field office.”

“I’m not interested in transferring,” Steve says.  “I’m very happy with my case, sir, I just - ”

“I’m mighty glad to hear that, son,” Pierce says.  “I’ll look forward to your next debriefing on the progress you’ve made with Zemo, and I won’t expect to hear any more about you stepping on any toes.”  He smiles patiently, like Steve’s a schoolboy who’s just completed a hard sum.  

“Yes, sir,” Steve says, because there’s nothing for it.  

“That’ll be all,” Pierce says, opening up a file on his desk and not sparing another glance for Steve.

Steve’s still mulling over the conversation when he leaves the bureau just after nightfall.  Pierce has always kept close tabs on his agents, but it’s not against protocol to take a look at a file for a case you’re not on.  Steve’s so focused on trying to figure out what he’d done to tick off the old man that he doesn’t notice the black Chrysler parked in front of the office until the man leaning against it says, “Agent Rogers?”

Steve looks up, startled.  “Yes?  Do I know you?”

“No.”  The man opens up the door and stands next to it expectantly.  “Mr. Stark would like to see you.”

“Pardon?” Steve says disbelievingly.  

“I’ll take you to him right now,” the man says. 

“I’m all right, thanks,” Steve says, shaking his head and heading toward Broadway.  

“I gotta warn you,” the man calls out, “he’s very persistent.  In fact he told me to follow you until you got in.”

“I’m sorry, does Stark think he can just summon people whenever he wants?” 

“Well,” the man says, “yes.”

“And you’ll really follow me?”

The man shrugs.  “He pays pretty well.”

Steve looks around; the street is busy, and nobody’s paying any attention.  The man holding open the door looks hopeful.  

Resigned, Steve sighs and climbs into the back seat of the car.  

Before long they’re cruising down Broadway.  Steve’s ridden in a car before, quite a few times, but the interior of this one is the nicest he’s seen, all sleek metal and leather, and the driver’s gloves look fancier than anything Steve’s worn in his life.  

“Name’s Hogan, by the way,” the man says.  “Pleased to meet you, sorry for strong-arming you back there.”

“So Stark pays you just to drive him around?”

“Sure.  Well, he drives, most of the time, but I look after the cars.”

“ _Cars_?  He’s got more than one?”

“Six,” Hogan says proudly.

“What on God’s green earth does he do with six cars?”

“Tinkers with them, mostly,” Hogan admits.  “Races, sometimes.  He built three of them himself, see.”

“He _built_  them?”  
  
“Mr. Stark’s a man of many talents,” Hogan says.

“Including kidnapping, apparently,” Steve mutters.

The trip uptown’s breathtakingly fast in the Chrysler, and Steve barely has time to wonder what Stark wants with him before Stark Tower appears at the end of the block, sticking up out of the rest of Midtown like a sore thumb.  Hogan drives straight into an underground driveway and pulls in next to a nearly identical black Chrysler.

“Unbelievable,” Steve murmurs as Hogan leads him past the other cars and into a sleek elevator.  

Hogan presses a button and then steps back out of the elevator.  “He’ll be on 41 waiting for you.”

“Hang on,” Steve says, “don’t you have to operate - ”

But with a clang, the doors slide shut.

Steve glares at the buttons on the panel next to the doors.  A servant with nothing to do but drive, six automobiles, an automated elevator - Stark clearly spares no expenses, and wastes plenty, too.  Steve can’t wait to give him a piece of his mind and then turn around and go straight home. 

The doors open with a gentle _clink_. The floor he’s arrived on looks like it’s one large room, brightened by light bulbs that hang from the ceiling and cluttered with - well, with what looks mostly like trash to Steve: hunks of concrete, all kinds of tubing, sheets of glass and twisted up metal.  Strewn across one large table is the wreckage of what looks like an entire automobile.  

“Cap!”

Steve looks up from the torn apart engine to see Stark across the room, a pair of absurdly large glasses perched on his nose, a gasoline-powered blowtorch in his hands, and a grin on his face.  “Glad you could make it.”

“Can’t see that I had much of a choice.” 

“Oh, come on, I know Happy was nice about it,” Stark says.  “Don’t blame Happy, blame me.”

“Don’t worry, I do.”  Steve picks up some kind of distended light bulb, frowns at it, and puts it back down.  “You need something?  Because you know, most people, when they want to talk, they call you up on the telephone, maybe try to catch you at a diner or something.  Most people don’t send their driver to come pick people up off the street.”

“Do we really need to evaluate whether or not I’m _most people_?” Stark says.  “How was your chat with our friend Dr. Banner?”

Steve pauses in his perusal of the items on Stark’s work table, then keeps moving smoothly.  “Well, above all else, it’s not any of your business.”

“See, that’s where I think you might be wrong,” Stark says, setting down his blowtorch with a _thunk_.  “I think it may actually be very much my business.  You and me, I think we might be looking for some of the same things.”

“I very much doubt that,” Steve says, poking his head around a corner nosily.  “In fact, I can say with some certainty that - what the _hell_  is that?”

“Oh, that?  Nothing much,” Stark says casually.

Steve gapes at the _thing_  standing against the wall.  “Nothing much?  It looks like - like some sort of clockwork man.  Or like some sort of… armor.”

Stark shrugs.  “It’s both.  And neither.  Hey, do you want a drink?  None of the expensive stuff, though.  No offense, but I don’t want to waste it on you, considering you won’t feel it.”

Steve looks up to see Stark watching him smugly.  “How’d you find out?”

“Millionaire, remember?” Stark says.  “I stopped making weapons a long time ago, but I still have contacts in the army.  Well, people I pay to be contacts.  Details in your file are pretty slim, lots of redactions and so on and so forth.  So you weren’t always six and a half feet of all-American perfection?”

Steve figures the jig is up.  “It was an experimental treatment to see if they could make me immune to mustard gas.  It worked, and then some.”

“So what, you’re immortal now?  Impenetrable skin and all that?”

“Not quite,” Steve says.  “I got shot at Cambrai.  I would have bled out, but the wound closed itself up before I got to a field hospital.  Still wasn’t much fun.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Stark says.  He takes off his glasses and walks up to his clockwork man, fiddles a little with its wrist, and then drops it with a _clang_.  “You know, most people don’t know this, but I spent some time at the front.”

“You expecting me to thank you for your service?”

Stark barks a laugh.  “It was supposed to be a quick visit, just to see some of my weapons in action.  Artillery, machine guns, a couple of tanks I’d modified, the basics.  Our transport exploded an hour after I arrived.  Spent three weeks under heavy fire.”

“I imagine that wasn’t much fun either.”

“I almost died,” Stark confirms.  “Had to get pretty creative not to, actually.  I didn’t have any immunity serum to help out.  I shut down my weapons plants the day I got back stateside.”

Steve remembers that; his superiors had been furious.  “So as soon as the war got ugly for you personally, you wanted out.  Color me impressed.”

“I deserve that,” Stark acknowledges.  “But I did get out of weapons, in the end.  And it turned out I had a lot of things to get out of.  Things I didn’t even know I was part of.”  He pulls out a rag and polishes the already-gleaming breastplate of the clockwork man.  “Took a couple years to get all my money out of the places it had ended up.  Some of it was involved in things your bosses probably have pretty extensive files on.”

“I’m sorry, is this a confession?  Should I be writing it all down?” Steve says.

“You’re looking for Emil Blonsky,” Stark says abruptly.  “You’re trying to use Banner to get to him.”

“What if I am?” Steve says, guarded.

Stark turns to face him.  “If you are, I want to help.”

Steve blinks.  “You want to _what_?”

“Emil Blonsky, Aldrich Killian, Johann Schmidt - they run this city,” Stark spits.

“And what, you think _you_  should be running it instead?”

“God, no,” Stark says.  “For one thing, I don’t have the time.”

“Too busy driving your six cars?”

“I’ll let you take one for a spin, if you want,” Stark says.  “Look, there’s always going to be somebody in charge, and frankly I don’t give a shit which politician is which, but the mob bosses - they’re not just in it for the power and the money.  They’re in it because they get off on hurting people, and making people hurt other people.  And right now, they own most of the politicians and police officers in New York.”

“I’m familiar with the situation,” Steve says dryly.  “So what, you’re trying to take them down?”

“Honestly?  I’m not sure yet,” Stark says, leaning against his work table.  “What are _you_  trying to do?”

Steve stiffens.  “Not that.  I’m… looking for somebody.”

“Somebody who works for Blonsky and Killian and Schmidt?”  Stark whistles softly.  “People don’t just _stop_  working for guys like that, you know.”

“If you’re so worried about it, why don’t you use all that money of yours to do something good?” Steve says.  “Help the city clean itself up.”

“The city’s rotten,” Stark says.  “I’m not talking about the speakeasies - they’re business establishments meeting a need, it’s the government’s own fault that most of them are run by the mob - but the whole core of this city has gone bad.  I just want to try to safeguard whatever small parts of it I can.”

Stark’s eyes slide toward the clockwork man, and Steve follows his gaze, thinking of the armband that blew a hole in the wall the other night at the Black Widow.  

“Could be dangerous,” Steve says quietly.

“I’m sure it will be,” Stark says.  “You think Banner can be convinced to help out?  I’ll invite him to dinner.”

“Banner’s… unstable, you know,” Steve says delicately.

“He’s a scientist, we’re all a little unstable,” Stark says.  “He’s just more interestingly unstable than most of us.”

“Be careful, is all I’m saying.”

“That’s gonna be tough, considering I’m never careful,” Stark says.  “But I appreciate you looking out.  Happy’ll take you home, if you want.”

Steve snorts.  “I can make it just fine on my own.  So I’m dismissed now, huh?”

“You’re welcome to stay, I’m just gonna go back to, you know - ” and here Stark gestures around the cluttered work space, “all of this.  I’m serious about taking one of the cars out, though.  Next weekend?  I’ll teach you how to drive if you don’t know how.”

Stark grins at him, and Steve finds himself grinning back before he can stop himself.  “At least if I crash it, you’ll have five more to spare.”

“That’s the spirit,” Stark says.  “So I’ll see you at the Black Widow tomorrow?”

“No,” Steve says, heading back toward the elevator.  

“All right, if you say so,” Stark calls out.  “Nine o’clock.  I’ll buy you a drink!”

Steve rolls his eyes and gets back in the clattering elevator.

-

The funny thing about running a gin joint that caters to people who don’t want to be found, Natasha reflects, is how many people there end up finding something.

Take Banner.  A few days ago he showed up looking for a place to stay that didn’t ask too many questions, and now he’s tucked in a corner with Tony Stark, heads bent over a piece of paper covered in scribbles that might as well be in Greek as far as Natasha can tell.  She wonders what Stark’s talking him into.  He can be quite persuasive, when he wants to be.

Or Valkyrie. Why the heiress to the Singer Sewing Machine fortune thinks she can avoid notice with a put-on name like is a mystery, but not the kind of mystery Natasha is particularly interested in unraveling. She would imagine it has something to do with families. "Daddy issues". The kinds of issues, she is told, that other people have. No, that doesn't interest Natasha particularly much. What does interest Natasha is the way Millicent Margaret Ann--ahem, sorry, _Valkyrie_ \--has undone her men's collared shirt and tuxedo tie and rolled up her sleeves to reveal brown, lithe forearms, a tantalizing peep of bronzed neck. Not a hint of a tan line to be seen. Drunk as she is most of the time, her intimidating aura protects her like the great golden nimbus of awareness and fear that cloaks a leopard on its branch. Natasha has never seen a man approach Valkyrie, despite her considerable beauty. She's wearing her hair slicked back like a jazz dancer, a question mark-like curl shellacked to her forehead, and the mole on her neck bobs every time she catches Natasha looking at her.

Natasha spends quite a lot of time looking at her.

And then there’s Rogers, Natasha thinks as she opens up an unlabeled bottle (moonshine, 140 proof, Clint likes to threaten to use it to clean the john) and pours a healthy glass.  A momentary hush falls over the Black Widow when he walks in, until Clint shakes his hand and the regulars chuckle and murmur to their friends that he looks like a lawman because he is one, but there’s nothing to worry about, he’s as crooked as the rest of them.  

He looks a little less uncomfortable than he did last time he was here, and Natasha pours him a glass of the moonshine just to see what happens.  “Long day?”

“No longer than most,” he replies, accepting the glass but not taking a drink.  “It’s crowded in here tonight.  Any customers giving you trouble?”

“Why, you looking to arrest somebody?” 

Rogers laughs.  “I’m off the clock, ma’am.”

“I bet you are,” Natasha says, gazing over his shoulder as Stark looks up sharply from the corner.  “So, you live around here?”

“Brooklyn,” Rogers says.  “Born and raised.”

“Pretty far to come for a glass of moonshine.”

“Not many places a fella like me can sit at a gin joint without being bothered.”

“Depends on what you mean by bothered,” Natasha murmurs as Stark slides through the crowd, Banner trailing reluctantly behind him.

“What was that, ma’am?” 

“Nothing,” she says.  “Another drink, Mr. Stark?”

“I’d love one, Miss Romanov, and how about an ice cold water for my friend Dr. Banner,” Stark says, pushing up to the bar.  “Almost didn’t see you there, Rogers.”

“I’m sure,” Rogers says dryly, and Natasha allows herself a smirk.  “Having a good night, Dr. Banner?”

“Could be worse,” Banner says.

“Banner’s a genius,” Stark proclaims.  “I’ve been working on a compound for my new power source - I’m gonna run an entire floor of my building off it, it’s gonna change the energy game - and I’ve spent three weeks feeding different juice into the capacitor with no luck.  Banner took one look at it, and bam.  Solved it.”

Banner shrugs.  “I’m still not actually sure it’ll work, but - ”

“It’ll work,” Stark says confidently, and Natasha adjusts her estimation of him: he’s even smarter than she thought.  “So Romanov, what’s this Barton tells me about Schmidt’s boys stopping by?”

“Thought they’d try to beat the rush and collect what their boss is due,” Natasha says.  “It’s nothing to worry about.  We handled them.”  One of them had left with a broken nose, and the other a dislocated shoulder; it would have gone even worse for them if Natasha hadn’t been concerned about tearing her last good pair of hose.  

“That’s two visits in a week from different organizations,” Rogers says.  “You sure there’s no cause for concern?”

“They just like to make trouble,” Thor says, handing Banner his ice water.  “Throw their weight around, try to act like they’re tough.  The Black Widow’s been running for two years and never paid a bribe yet.”

“Never paid a bribe to the mob,” Clint corrects, coming around the bar to drop a tray full of empty glasses into the sink.  “We bribe police officers regularly.”

“I’d rather not hear too many of the details about that, if it’s all the same to you,” Rogers says.  

“Cover his poor virgin ears,” Stark snarks.  “He’s never heard of a good clean government official taking money to look the other way.”

“I was actually thinking about how I’d prefer not to perjure myself in a court of law, if it ever came to that,” Rogers says, and throws back his moonshine.  “Criminy, Miss Romanov.  This is strong stuff.”

“It’s perfectly legal,” Natasha says, “or, you know.”

“It’s funny, actually,” Stark says, looking around at all of them, “Schmidt’s men showing up here, just a few days after Killian.  It seems like the Widow’s got a target on its back.”

Natasha shrugs carefully.  “We’re an establishment operating outside external influence.  We’ve always got a target on our back.”

“You ever think about joining up?” Stark says, his eyes boring into hers.

“Never once,” Natasha says.  “Killian, Schmidt, Blonsky - they all get up to things I’ve got no interest in.  Weapons.  Moving money around.  Moving _people_  around.”

Stark pulls a face.  “In that case, I may have a proposition for you.”

“I highly doubt I’m gonna be interested.”

“That’s too bad,” Stark says.  “Because Rogers is interested.  Banner, too.”

“Hang on a minute,” Banner says.  “I never said I was interested, I said you were crazy for even thinking about it.”

“And I never agreed to work with you,” Rogers says.  “I’m running my own op, if you want in you’ll have to go through me.”

“Sounds like you’ve really got your ducks in a row, Stark,” Clint says.

“Look, my point is, none of us like the idea of these guys taking over even more of New York,” Stark says, ignoring everyone.  “And we made a pretty good team the other night against Killian’s men, right?”

“We could’ve handled it without any of you,” Clint scoffs.

“Probably,” Thor chimes in.

“So what’s your plan?” Natasha says.  “Take on the entire New York mob outfit single-handedly?  Sounds like suicide.”

“It might be,” Stark says.  “But I’m sick of sitting around watching Killian and all the rest of them get more and more powerful every day.”

There’s a moment of thoughtful silence.  Natasha thinks that it might even be a _nice_  moment.  Or, at least it might be before Clint opens his mouth and says, “So whadda they got on you?” 

Everyone goes quiet.  “Excuse me?” Stark says.

“You live up in your skyscraper with your butlers and your fancy cars and all your money, you got nothin’ to worry about,” Clint says.  “So’s the way I see it, it shouldn’t matter at all to you unless one of these outfits have something on you.”

 

Natasha wonders for a minute if Stark’s about to storm away, but then he throws back his head and laughs.  “That’s a good question, Barton, a very good question, and the answer is they’ve got plenty on me.  More red on my ledger than I can ever get rid of, in fact.  If any of them ever decide it’s time to come for me, I’m looking at the inside of a jail cell if I’m lucky and the bottom of the Hudson if I’m not.  So sure, maybe I’m talking about a pre-emptive strike.  Show them that not everybody’s just gonna roll over.”

“How do you plan to show them that?” Thor asks.

“I’m not sure yet,” Stark says.  “Rogers, what’s your plan?”

“I’m still working on it,” Rogers says.  “And no offense intended, but it’s not the kind of thing where I can bring a bunch of tagalongs.”

“So you do have a plan,” Natasha says.

Rogers looks around at each of them and sighs, resigned.  “I’ve got a friend who works for them.  Or at least, he _was_  a friend.  I want to get him out.  I think he’s working for Blonsky’s outfit out of Harlem.”

“Your friend’s one of Blonsky’s big men?” Clint says.

“Could be,” Rogers says.  “You know them?”

“We’ve had some run-ins.  You sure you want to go in there?”

“Can’t see as I have much of a choice.”

Clint glances at Natasha.  “You could always draw ‘em out.”

  
“What do you mean?”

“You’re an agent for the federal bureau of investigation,” Natasha says.  “Let the right people know that you’re looking for secondary employment, and Blonsky might come to you.”

“You mean, suggest I’m on the take?” Rogers says.

Natasha lifts a shoulder.  “You wouldn’t be the first.”

“It’s a whole lot smarter than going in with just your fists,” Clint says.  

“Especially if you go in with back-up,” Stark says.

Rogers raised his eyebrows.  “You?”

“Maybe,” Stark says.  “Maybe not just me.”  

“He means me,” Banner says wearily.  

“You said the other night you wouldn’t help me get in,” Rogers says.  

“I’m still not saying I will,” Banner says.  

“But he’s considering it,” Stark says.  “That’s a big step forward.”

“You’ve all got a couple screws loose,” Clint says.  

“What he means to say is that he’s in,” Natasha says.  “And so am I.”

Rogers looks horrified.  “Ma’am, we can’t allow you to - ”

“You’re not _allowing_  me to do anything,” Natasha says.  “It’s my business that’s being threatened.  I’ve got just as much skin in the game as any of you.”

“This plan, I like it!” Thor says, slamming a glass down on the bar.   

Rogers swivels around dubiously.  “You all really want to do this?”

“I’m still not totally clear on what _this_  is, but sure, why not,” Clint says.  

“Banner?” Stark says, elbowing the scientist cheerfully.

Banner takes off his glasses and wipes them on his handkerchief.  “Well, I’ve already beaten one mob thug to a pulp this week, so I guess it’s in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“That’s the spirit,” Stark says.


	3. Chapter 3

“This,” Banner says quietly, “was a very bad idea.”

“That opinion’s about twenty minutes too late to matter,” Stark says, pulling his hat lower over his eyes.  

“Well, I said it twenty minutes ago, too, and nobody listened to me then either - ”

“Can it,” Steve says out of the corner of his mouth.  “They’ll be here any second.”

“They better be, I don’t have all night,” Stark says.

Steve rolls his eyes.  “Big party to get to?”

“I happen to have a very demanding social life, actually.”

“Yeah, all those high society folks tend to drink a lot of expensive mob-smuggled liquor from what I hear - ”

“Boys,” Miss Romanov says quietly, and they all freeze as the door slides open, allowing a sliver of streetlight into the warehouse. 

Four men walk into the warehouse; Steve’s stomach flips over, but none of them are Bucky.  Steve counts seven guns between them, and that’s just what he can see above their clothes.  

“We weren’t expecting so many people,” one of the men says.  The light gleams off his sawed-off shotgun, and Steve suspects he’s Ivan Vanko.  “I’m not a fan of uninvited guests.”

“You’ll have to forgive my bad manners,” Steve says, stepping forward and leaving the others in the shadows.  “This is all a bit of a risk for me, see.  I could use a few witnesses.”

“Search them,” the man says briskly, and Steve puts his hands where everybody can see them as the other men step forward.  

The men are efficient and not exactly gentle as they pat down first Steve, then Banner; Steve holds his breath when they get to Tony, but the man moves on quickly.  One of them turns toward Miss Romanov with a leer, but she steps closer to Steve and he throws his arm around her.  “Not my girl,” he says firmly.

The man glances at his boss.  Miss Romanov’s done her hair differently and the kohl around her eyes makes her look like someone else entirely; even if they’d heard of the Black Widow, they wouldn’t recognize its mistress.  She gives the goons a smile so demure that even Steve himself nearly forgets about the knives hidden in her garter belt.

“Very well,” Vanko says, and the men back off.   “So, Agent.  We hear you’re interested in an arrangement with the boss.”

“Could be.”

“And why should we go into business with a fella from the bureau of investigation?” 

“I’m not working the Blonsky case, but I know who is,” Steve says.  “Could be a time when I know something about a raid or somebody they’re about to come down hard on.  A couple hours in either direction could make a big difference.”  Steve feels filthy even saying it, until he thinks about the number of bodies that usually get hauled out of a major raid, and the idea of looking under one of those sheets and seeing the face he’s looking for. 

“How do we know you’re good for what you say you are?” Vanko says, looking unimpressed.

“You don’t,” Steve says.  “But if I am, you never know how that could work out for you personally, Mr. Vanko.”

Vanko arches an eyebrow.  Steve’s playing with fire; seconds in command tend to be fiercely loyal right up until an opportunity presents itself.  

“I guess we won’t know until we try,” Vanko says finally.  “We’ll be in touch.”

“I hope you will,” Steve calls, and with a grind, the warehouse door slides shut again.

“Is that it?” Stark says into the darkness, and Steve’ll be damned if the man doesn’t sound disappointed.

“Were you hoping for something a little more spectacular?” Miss Romanov says, slipping out from under Steve’s arm and adjusting her blouse.

“Honestly?  Yes,” Stark says.  “That was a little bit of a letdown.  I was expecting my first time arranging a bribe to really get the blood flowing.”

“We weren’t here for theatrics,” Steve says.  “Do you think they had enough time to - ”

“Clint and Thor’ll be on their tail,” Miss Romanov says. 

“Let’s hope so.”  Steve holds out an arm for Miss Romanov.  “See you back at the joint?”

“Race ya,” Stark says.  

They leave the warehouse in pairs; Steve and Miss Romanov go first and head toward the Rector Street station, while Stark and Banner climb into one of Stark’s cars and zoom off with a squeal of tires.

Miss Romanov doesn’t speak as they walk to the subway, and she waits until the near-empty car is clanging down the track before she leans in and murmurs, “I think they trusted you.”

Steve glances around the car.  “Yeah?”

“For some value of trust,” Romanov rectifies.  “The nice thing about the mob is that they know everybody’s got ulterior motives, and they don’t much care what yours are as long as they get what they want.”

“I guess there’s something to be said for operating outside the law,” Steve says, and Miss Romanov treats him to a smile.

-

Stark and Banner beat them back to the Black Widow, and they’re already sitting at the bar helping themselves.  “Is that my good whiskey?” Natasha asks, arching an eyebrow.

“I thought we deserved it,” Stark says, sliding her a glass.

“Did you recognize any of those men?” Rogers asks Banner.

“Only Vanko,” Banner says.  “But if Blonsky sent him, that means they’re interested.  We’re lucky they didn’t notice your armband, Stark; Vanko’s got a quick trigger finger and he doesn’t mind collateral damage.”

“You never should have brought it in the first place,” Rogers says.

Stark yanks up the sleeve of his jacket to show the shiny metal threaded around his arm.  “Come on, you think I’m about to walk in there without an insurance policy?”

“We don’t want to get in a shoot out with these fellas unless we have to,” Natasha says.  

“Are you expecting we’re gonna have to?” Rogers says.

“Hard to imagine we won’t,” Banner says, looking down at the bar.

It’s only fifteen minutes before they hear the door from the deli swing open, and they all go quiet until Clint and Thor thunder down the steps.

“So?” Rogers says tensely.

“We got ‘em,” Clint says.  “They’re set up in East Harlem, by the water.  Not a huge operation, just a couple’a guys who look like scientists and a dozen or so hired guns.”

  

“We can take out a dozen guys,” Stark says.  

“Most of them look like Blonsky’s scientists have had their way with them,” Thor says.  “It may not be so easy.”

“I’m going in,” Rogers says.  

“I am too,” Stark says.  “I want to see what Blonsky’s messing around with.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourselves into,” Banner warns.

“No, but you do,” Stark says.  

“And that’s why I’d rather not get myself into it.”

“We know you can handle yourself,” Stark says.  “We were all there the other night when - ”

“Yeah, I remember,” Banner interrupts, and Natasha can see a vein throbbing in his forehead.  “But once I start, I can’t always stop.  I’m not - I’m not like them, I don’t actually like hurting people, but I don’t always have - _control_.”

Natasha exchanges a look with Clint.  

“Then we’ll be there to make sure you don’t have to get started,” Clint says, jerking his head toward Thor.  “You’ll be on intel gathering only, Doc.”

“Well, it sounds like you boys’ll need all the help you can get,” Natasha says.  “Tomorrow night.  We meet here at eleven.”

“It’s a date,” Stark says.

There’s a clatter of chairs being stacked and glasses wiped out as the boys get ready to leave; Natasha watches Rogers beeline out before Stark can chase him, sees Banner head up the stairs toward his apartment.

She notices, in a clinical sort of way, that Banner has left his hat at the bar. She's not going to run it up after him. She's not going to get involved. Banner may be tall, and he may have the lips of a Roman statue, but that doesn't mean Natasha is going to go upending her life to be his minder. He can help them cut the mob down to size and then be on his merry way, and that's fine with Natasha. That's perfectly fine. 

Natasha stills as she realizes that, without noticing, she has picked up Banner's hat. Damnit. Clint will have noticed that. She sets the hat back down, feeling the stillness behind her that means that Clint and Thor have both finished locking the doors and wiping down their counters, and are waiting on her to go. Natasha is suddenly, desperately antsy, as fractious as a teenager. She wants, badly, to be drunk; to be pummeled; to be locked in a barrel and thrown over a goddamnned waterfall. Anything to free her of thought, of caution; anything to be fifteen again, and as carefree and heartless as she was the day before she lost everything. She feels like she just might vibrate out of her skin if she has to control her face for one more moment--to pretend to be some man's property for one more moment. 

There's only one thing for her, when she's in this kind of mood. She turns, looks both her male employees in the eyes, lets her gaze drift purposefully down their bodies. Pulls them flush against her and kisses Thor, then Clint, keeping a grip on both their ties while she does it. Clint smirks at her as she pulls away, his eyes hooded as she undoes his tie, then his shirt collar.

"What took you so long?" he asks her. "You've been needing this since Banner arrived."

"Put your mouth somewhere useful," Natasha tells him, and pushes him to the floor, where he hikes up her silk skirt, slowly, fingers skating over her creamy thighs. She winds one leg over his shoulder and uses it to pull him towards her, closing her eyes in pleasure as he gently mouths the satin covering her mound, dampening it, outlining her soft folds with his tongue. Thor crowds her against the bar, pressing his forehead to hers, trading slow, leisurely kisses with her as he undoes her blouse and runs his fingers under the straps of her brassiere.

"Take notice," Thor whispers into her mouth as Clint begins to edge her panties aside, "you have an observer."

Natasha cracks one eyelid open and sees Banner, not quite concealed by the shadow of the stairwell, frozen in place on his way back down--presumably to get his hat. She turns her head back to Thor, gripping him by the back of the neck and murmuring into his mouth. "Let him watch," she says.

-

The plan is actually pretty simple.

Miss Romanov is the only one among them who can get away with walking in the front door of a mob operation without risking a chest full of lead.  While she distracts the boys in the front, Steve and Stark will sneak in through the back entrance, Barton will climb the fire escape, and Banner and Odinson will wait for Barton’s all clear to go in the side door.  Banner says the laboratories of these set-ups are usually on the ground floor - the scientists are smart enough to like the idea of an easy escape - and with any luck, they’ll be in and out in ten minutes with an armful of whatever records they can find and a blueprint of the place to hand over to the feds. 

“Like you said,” Stark says through gritted teeth.  “ _Simple_.”

Steve takes a swing at the fella on his left, and his fist connects with a _crack_.  “Your commentary isn’t helping,” he says, jumping out of the way of a Colt .45 and knocking the gun away with a roundhouse kick.  

Stark’s armband blows a hole in the ceiling, and plaster rains down on them.  “That could have gone better,” he says thoughtfully, and dives out of the way of an approaching goon.  

From the first floor, there’s a smattering of gunshots.  Steve takes another out man at the knees.  “Get out of here, Stark,” he grits out, holding firmly on the back of the goon’s neck; he writhes and scrabbles at Steve’s hands, but Steve holds him tight.  “Find Miss Romanov and _go_.”

“And miss all the fun?” Stark says, pushing up his sleeves as another man advances.  “You look like just the kind of fella who enjoys scientific investigation.  Care to help me out with an experiment?”

The man narrows his eyes and lunges, and Stark holds out his arm and - and _lights him on fire_.  He screams and jumps backward, patting wildly at his chest, and crashes into the next room.

“For crying out loud, Stark, what was that?” 

“Effective,” Stark says.  “Shall we?”

The man below Steve stops struggling and falls unconscious, and Steve releases him immediately.  “You’re gonna get us killed,” he mutters, following Stark back toward the stairwell.

“You’re the one who dove right at - _Rogers_!”

Steve whirls around and catches an approaching fella in the gut; he doubles over with a grunt, and a man down the hall holds up a Tommy gun.  “Duck!” Steve yells, and hopes to hell that Stark hits the deck as bullets fly.  

When the shots stop, Steve jumps up and knocks out a third man waiting in the wings, then grabs a nearby chair and uses it to block a fourth coming down the stairs.  “Any chance you know of another way out of here?” he calls out to Stark.  “Oh criminy, put that thing _down_ \- ”

But he’s too late: Stark’s armband goes off again, and this time a whole wall collapses right on top the nearest thug.  

“You can’t be mad at me about that,” Stark says with a grin.

“Try me,” Steve snaps, and heads down the hallway.  “There should be another door at this end, if we could just - ”

A fist comes out of nowhere; lights burst in front of Steve’s eyes, and he slams into the wall.

“Damn it,” Stark says, “I’m still reloading, _damn it_  - ”

Steve pushes himself to his feet; he’s unsteady, but he holds up his fists and squints through the darkness and - 

“Bucky?” he says.

The man freezes and steps back quickly, further into the shadows.  “Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve says.  “Yeah, it’s me.  Buck - ”

“You gotta get out of here,” Bucky says.  “They’ll - we’ll _kill_  you.”

“I know, but I came to find - I came for _you_  - ”

“You shouldn’t have,” Bucky says.  “You gotta go, Steve, _please_.”

“Come with me,” Steve says.  “Just - just come with me, and we’ll figure the rest out.”

“There’s no figuring it out,” Bucky says, his voice hollow.  “This is _it_ , all right?”

“No, not all right.”  Steve takes a step forward.  “Buck, we can - ”

“Get _out_  of here,” Bucky says.  He pushes Steve, _hard_ , and Steve would have fallen backwards if Stark hadn’t been right behind him.  “Get him the _fuck_  - ”

“We’re going, we’re going,” Stark says, wrapping an arm around Steve’s waist and hauling him upright. 

“Buck,” Steve says.  “I can get you out of here - ”

“No, Steve, you _can’t_ ,” Bucky says.

“Come on,” Stark says, and drags Steve toward the stairs.

-

The first set of gunshots aren’t a surprise.

“What the hell?” Vanko says, looking up at the ceiling.

Natasha leans forward and bites her bottom lip.  “Trouble, Mr. Vanko?” she says breathily.

Vanko turns to one of his men.  “Get up there and see what’s going on.”  He turns back to Natasha with narrowed eyes.  “You were saying, miss?”

Natasha opens her mouth, and the second set of gunshots takes the wind out of her sails. She barely holds back a wince.

“Stay here,” Vanko says darkly, and heads down the hall.

Natasha inspects her nails.  The last man in the room takes a step closer and rests his hand on the arm of her chair.  “You know,” he says, looking down at her with a smile, “if you’re looking for help, I might be able to be of some assistance.  That is, assuming you’re amenable to - ”

Natasha drives a knife into the top of his hand.  His scream echoes through the building, just like Natasha wanted it to; now there are at least three hotspots.

“Better luck next time,” she says, patting the screeching man on the cheek and leaving the way Vanko came.  The next room is an office, and she grabs an armful of handwritten documents and shoves them into her oversized bag.  There’s a pile of photos on the desk, and she flips through them quickly, then drops them into the bag along with a pile of cash (because why not).  

Above her, there’s an explosion and a crash and the whole building shakes.  She throws the last of the documents into the bag and goes back into the hallway as dust and plaster rain down.  

“You fucking _bitch_.”

Natasha spins around with a smile.  The man with the gaping knife wound in his hand drags himself out of the front room, fiddling with a pistol.  

“Sorry,” she says, slinging the bag over her shoulder.  “No time to chat.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he growls, lifting the gun in a shaking hand, and Natasha’s weighing her options when the man’s face goes slack and he falls forward like a sack of potatoes.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Clint says, pulling his knife out of the back of the man’s neck.

“Not my type,” Natasha says, wrinkling her nose.  “Find anything?”

“Buncha scientists who couldn’t even hold a tommy gun the right way up,” Clint says with a shrug.  “You?”

“Plenty,” Natasha says.  “Thor and Banner?”

“Thor went out the back way, he’s bringing the car around.  I left Banner collecting samples in the lab, he’ll be here any second.  You hear Stark’s gun go off?”

“They heard Stark’s gun go off in Queens,” Natasha says.  “He’s gotta be compensating for something.”

There’s a clatter from above, and they both tense as somebody hurtles down the stairs.  “Let’s get out of here,” Banner says breathlessly, a sack thrown over his shoulder.  

“Way ahead of you, Doc,” Clint says, grabbing the sack from him and stepping over the body on the floor.

“Get anything good?” Natasha asks as she follows him through the winding hallway and out to the front of the building.

“Let’s hope so,” Banner says, holding the door open for her.  “Oh, no - ”

Natasha turns around; behind her, a man with fists like wrecking balls thunders down the hallway.  She doesn’t even have time to consider whether to go for the knees or the solar plexus before Banner grabs the man by the collar and slams him up against the wall.

“Get out of here,” he growls at Natasha, and his voice is deep and rough and full of barely banked rage.  He pulls back his fist and catches the man in the jaw so hard he spits blood.  “I said _go_.”

Natasha’s heart leaps into her throat.  She runs out the door behind Clint, who looks over her shoulder with a frown. 

“Where’s Banner?” he asks.

“Taking care of the last man standing,” Natasha says.  

“He’s not armed,” Clint says, looking over his shoulder.  

“You think he needs to be?” Natasha glances at the four-door Dodge humming at the sidewalk.  “He’ll kill the man with his bare hands.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Clint says with a frown.  “Damn it.  Take this.”

“Clint,” Natasha says, putting a hand on his arm.  “He’s dangerous.”

“You think?” he grumbles, shoving the bag into her arms and running back toward the building.

“Where the hell is he going?” Stark yells, running around the corner with Rogers on his heels.

“To get Banner,” Natasha says.  “Get in the car.”

“Way ahead of you,” Stark says, climbing into the driver’s seat.  Natasha throws the bags into the back and crawls into the front seat next to Thor.

“The police will be here any minute,” Thor says.

“Here they come,” Rogers says, and Natasha cranes her neck to see Clint dragging Banner out of the building.  Somebody shoots at them from the top floor, and Clint doesn’t miss a step, just shoves Banner into the back seat and yanks the door shut behind them.  Banner’s trembling as bullets slap against the pavement, and Natasha can tell it’s not with fear. 

“ _Drive_!” Clint snaps, and Stark puts his foot on the gas so hard that they all slam back into the leather seats.

“Anybody get shot?” Stark says as the tires squeal.

They all look around, assessing.  “Don’t worry, nobody’s bleeding on your upholstery,” Clint says.

“Well _that’s_ a relief,” Stark says, and when Natasha starts laughing out of pure adrenaline none of them are able to stop for a long, long time.

-

“Agent Rogers?  You’ve got a phone call on line number three.”

Steve looks up, surprised.  “Thanks, Miss Hill.”  He hurries over to the phone room and lifts the received to his ear.  “This is Agent Rogers.”

“Now don’t get too excited, but I’ve got a tip for you,” Tony Stark says in his ear.

Steve turns closer to the wall and cups his hand over his mouth.  “How’d you even get this number?  We’re unlisted.”

“No such thing as unlisted,” Stark says, and Steve can just _hear_  his smirk.  

“Not for you, anyway.  You said something about a tip?”

“There’s gonna be a party tomorrow night out on Long Island.  Big house on the water, lots of obnoxious rich people.  Tons of booze.  Enough to get even you drunk.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Steve says wryly.  “You can’t just call me up at work, you know.”

“Uh, I beg to differ, considering I just did,” Stark says.  “Look, I’ll send a car for you.”

“You don’t have to - ”

“Yeah, I know I don’t,” Stark interrupts.  “Tomorrow night, nine o’clock. I’ll see you then?”

“Stark - ”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Stark says.  “All right, get back to work, my taxes aren’t paying for you to stand around and talk on the telephone!”

“You’re the worst,” Steve mutters as the line goes dead.

-

You know it’s gonna be a good party when you hear it before you see it.

The house is set back from the street, hidden behind trees and shrubs, and as the car gets to the end of the driveway Steve whistles between his teeth.   “I know, right?” Happy says, shutting down the car.

The house is huge, three stories of brightly-lit windows and fancy brickwork and climbing vines.  The lawn’s covered in cars, and there’s a band playing somewhere; by the buzz in the air, Steve would guess that a fair number of people have been enjoying the libations for some time already.  

Happy tips his hat to Steve.  “I’ll be around if anybody needs a ride home.”

“I’m sure plenty of people will,” Steve says, heading up the stairs.  The front hall is wall-to-wall with people, and everybody’s dressed to the nines, the women in flashy gowns and the men in sharp suits and bow ties.  Steve feels underdressed in the nicest thing he owns.

The noise gets louder as he edges through the crowd to the backyard.  The band is set up on a stage next to a swimming pool, and the air is thick with laughter and cigarette smoke.  Almost everybody has a drink in their hand, and Steve doesn’t recognize a single person.  

He hovers at the top of the stairs for several increasingly awkward minutes and wonders how far it is to the nearest subway station.  A couple miles, he figures; he doesn’t mind the run, but he’d prefer not to scuff up his good shoes, not after he spent so long shining them - 

“Cap!” 

Stark appears in the center of the crowd with a grin, and Steve grins back.  “I’m only here to shut this place down.”

“Good luck with that, I won’t be able to get rid of these people til dawn,” Stark says.  He grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and presses one against Steve’s chest.  “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

“You sent Hogan,” Steve says.  “I assumed he’d wait outside my door until I gave in.”

Stark shrugs.  “Nah, no kidnappings tonight.  This isn’t business, it’s pleasure.  Maybe a little too much pleasure, actually,” he says, catching a young woman by the elbow as she stumbles up the stairs.  

“What’s the occasion?”

“Great question,” Mr. Stark says.  “Miss Potts keeps track of those things.  Miss Potts!”

A woman with a bright red bob appears out of nowhere.  “Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“What are we celebrating?”

“The thirtieth anniversary of Stark Industrial,” Miss Potts says.  

“Fascinating,” Stark says.  “Thanks, Pep - hey, why did the music stop?  Did someone stop the music?”

“The band gets breaks, Mr. Stark.”

“Not if I pay them to work overtime, excuse me,” Stark says, disappearing into the crowd.

Miss Potts turns to Steve with a smile.  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“Steve Rogers,” Steve says, shaking her hand.  “How do you do?”

“It’s a pleasure.  You’re one of Mr. Stark’s new friends, right?” Her eyes are bright and curious, and Steve wonders what exactly she knows.  

“That’s right,” he says cautiously.  “And you’re Mr. Stark’s, uh - ”

“Secretary,” Miss Potts says, and winks.

Steve’s eyes widen.

“Not _that_  kind of secretary,” Miss Potts says with a laugh, and Steve ducks his head sheepishly; he _was_  thinking that, after all.  “I spend most of my time making sure the business stays up and running.  Mr. Stark’s usually too busy inventing things or getting into trouble to worry about bookkeeping and production lines.”

“Why am I not surprised?” 

“Well, if you’ve met him, it’s pretty clear that he’s a genius, if not exactly a _focused_  one.  Especially lately,” Miss Potts says, leaning forward.  “He’s always in his laboratory these days, but he’ll never tell me what he’s up to.”

“Mm,” Steve says noncommittally.

“Well, anyway,” Miss Potts says, “I’d better go make sure Tony’s not trading 10% stake in the company for an extra hour from the band - have fun!”

“You too,” Steve says.  He takes a sip of champagne and looks around, trying to spot Stark in the crowd as the band starts up again.  Pretty dumb of him, showing up to a party where he’s not sure he knows anyone besides the host; he probably won’t see Stark again for the whole night, and even if he did, it’s not like he has much to say to - 

“Rogers!”  Odinson careens out of the crowd and throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders.  “Hell of a party, isn’t it?”

“It’s really something,” Steve agrees as Banner, Barton and Miss Romanov stride up.  “Is this Stark’s house?”

“One of them,” Barton says, rolling his eyes.  “Probably bought it from Rockefeller.”

“JP Morgan, actually,” Stark says, climbing up the stairs.  “You should have _seen_  what he left in the basement.  Everybody having a good time?”

“Verily,” Odinson says, grabbing another glass of champagne.  “We deserve it after the other night’s escapade.”

“Cheers to that,” Barton says.  “Any luck figuring out what kind of science mumbo jumbo we all almost got ourselves killed over?”

Banner and Stark exchange a look.  “Nothing good,” Banner says.  

Miss Romanov arches an eyebrow.  “What a surprise.”

“Weapons, mostly,” Stark says.  “Some chemical stuff.  No hooch that we could see, so your business should be safe enough for now, Miss Romanov.”

“I’ll rest easy,” Miss Romanov says.  “We found a few things ourselves, in the mess from Vanko’s office.  Him and his boss have some… plans.”

“Plans?” Steve says.

“Girls,” Barton spits.  “They go after kids who show up in the city with nothin but a suitcase and a dream, offer ‘em jobs and places to stay, and then - ”  He shrugs, his face twisted.  “They’re moving a group of ‘em tomorrow night.  Out of state.  From there...”

“We get the picture,” Stark says darkly.  “So what do we do about it?”

Romanov smiles.  “I was hoping you’d say that.  We’ve got a plan, if you boys are interested.”

“Meet us around 6 at the Black Widow tomorrow night?” Barton says. 

“I _was_  planning to sleep the entire day, but sure, I can probably make it,” Stark says. 

“Works for me,” Steve says.  

“Me too,” Banner says, with only a dash of reluctance.

Stark claps him on the back.  “Glad that’s settled!  Who else needs a drink?” 

-

Natasha accepts another glass of champagne from Stark and sips it, surveying the crowd.  It’s an interesting mix: plenty of rich men like Stark - none quite as rich as him, but then, who is - with younger girls hanging off their elbows, but plenty of self-made women too, showing off the latest fashions from Paris and making eyes at anybody who catches their interest.  

The boys - her boys, Natasha thinks, a bit too fondly for her own liking - are clustered together, drawing glances from plenty of women (and a few men) and not even noticing in the slightest.  Thor’s regaling Banner and Stark with a story from his time as a sailor, his voice booming even in the busy crowd.  Rogers, his hands clenched around around a drink he hasn’t touched, is looking amused at something Clint’s saying; Natasha knows perfectly well that Clint’s been planning to get Rogers drunk enough to spill all his FBI secrets, and though she suspects that there isn’t enough booze in all of New York, she looks forward to watching him try.

“Pardon me, miss, care for a dance?” 

The man who’s suddenly leaning in too close smells of whiskey and cheap cologne.  “I’m all right, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, sliding a hand around her waist.  “A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be alone on a nice night like this.” 

“Good thing I’m not,” Natasha says, smiling faintly.  “Bruce?”

Banner’s head snaps towards her.  “Yes?”

“Dance,” she says firmly.

“What?”

“Now.”  She raises her eyebrows, and Bruce’s gaze slides to the man who still seems to think he has a chance.  

“Oh,” Bruce says, stepping forward.  “Of course, I - ”

“Excuse me,” Natasha says, ducking away from the cheap cologne and taking Bruce’s proffered arm.  

He swallows hard, then leads her down the stairs to the crowded dance floor.  It’s steaming down here, the air thick with humidity and cigarette smoke.  Natasha’s just begun to wonder if Banner knows how to Charleston when the song ends and a slow one starts up.  

Bruce turns to her, valiantly covering up his nerves, and holds out his hand.  She takes it, and they begin a slow waltz, just barely avoiding the heels and elbows of other dancers. 

“Thanks for the rescue,” Natasha murmurs, close to his ear.

“Anytime,” Bruce says.  “But I’m pretty sure you didn’t need it.”

“You can’t blame me for making the most of an opportunity.”

Bruce’s cheeks turn faintly pink, to Natasha’s delight.  “You could dance with any fella here tonight, Miss Romanov.  Why are you so interested in me?”

Natasha considers several possible answers, and settles finally on the truth.  “Most men only have a couple of things on their mind.  You seem to have a lot more than that.  It’s… compelling.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you’re overestimating how much you want to know about what’s on my mind?” Bruce says wryly.

She leans in close, until her voice is just a breath in his ear.  “I like to think I know myself better than that.”  

Bruce shivers a little, but doesn’t miss a step.  “Maybe you should be less interested and more afraid.”

“Somehow I don’t think so,” Natasha says.

"Miss Romanov - "

"No." She pulls away, just enough to look him in the eyes. "Now you listen. You've been warning me off you since we met, but since we met you've also seen me fight an entire room full of made guys, fend off multiple hostile takeover attempts on my bar, set Tony Stark up with what I think might actually be a genuine war hero, and I'm also pretty sure you watched me with my bartender and my security guy at the same time. Unless that wasn't you in the stairwell that night, in which case," and here she ducks gently to catch Bruce's gaze again as he squirms, "I also sleep with my bartender and my security guy at the same time. Whatever you're hiding from me," and here, she has to do the gaze-catching trick again, because he's swiveling around the room like he wants to hide under the furniture. " _Whatever you're hiding from me_ ," she repeats emphatically, grabbing his chin and training his gaze on herself, "isn't my business. I don't care. You can keep secrets from me. I won't pry. All I'm trying to do is play a little." She slides her hand up his arm, gives him a gentle squeeze. "You know. For fun."

"Fun," Bruce repeats, doubtfully.

"Yeah. Fun. You heard of it?"

He pulls her closer into his arms, swaying to the music as his breath ruffles the curls at the side of her crown. "I think I may have heard of it, once upon a time. They have it in Russia?"

She smiles against his lapel. "As much as anywhere, I suppose."

"I don't think they have it in Chicago," he says. "You might have to teach me."

Natasha smiles up at him. "I think I can do that." As the song ends, she pulls him off the dance floor, leading him first to the gigantic crystal punch bowl, where she spoons out two glasses of liquid the pale pink of a peony. "Let's drink these somewhere less crowded," she says, and pulls him by the hand to the staircase. "What's wrong with the first floor?" Bruce asks when she passes it without even slowing down.

"At one of Tony's parties?" says Natasha. "Every bedroom on the first floor will have long since been occupied. We're going somewhere a little more private."

She leads Bruce up the stairs, down the hallway past five closed doors, and into a room which turns out... not to be a bedroom. It's Tony's library. Two stories tall, circular, a wraparound balcony halfway up, accessed only by a spiral staircase. There are red velvet couches. A globe. And, sitting in the center of the central column, a baby grand. 

"Of course Tony would have a baby grand in the library," Bruce remarks, his fingers idly tracing the edges of the black keys. "No keeping quiet in here."

"Rules were made to be broken," Natasha observes. "I don't even think Stark plays. I just think he was shushed once, as a child." 

Bruce chuckles. "You have his number pretty good."

"I read people. It's a survival skill." 

"Oh, yeah?" he says, as she steps to him and undoes his tie, loosens his collar. "What do you read in me?"

Her mouth twists wryly. "You're a big book. Could take a lifetime to learn. I've only read the first few pages."

"And yet you feel comfortable doing.... This?"

Her blue eyes meet his. "How many pages did you have to read before you knew you were reading your favorite book?"

-

Steve opens the sixth door in the second floor hallway. All he’s trying to do is find some towels for the girls down by the pool, and so far he’s interrupted three menage a troises (is that how you said the plural of menage a trois? Steve’s never even seen one before tonight, and now he’s having to remember French pluralization rules), one encounter between two men that looked.... urgent, and a tuxedo'd man throwing up into a writing desk. It’s been an eventful search. He opens the sixth door. 

And sees Natasha Romanov, on her back, stretched out over the length of a lacquered black baby grand, her red silk dress rucked up over her hips, Bruce Banner's dark and curly head between her thighs. He has one dark, tanned hand braced against the piano, the other wrapped around her creamy thigh, and he’s pulling her close against his mouth as she moans and bucks in pleasure, yanking his hair and guiding his motions. Her eyes are wide open, and as Steve freezes in horror, they lock onto his. Her expressions of pleasure don’t change.  Her blue gaze burns. Then, she winks. 

_So, not in there, then_ , Steve thinks, backing out of the room and slamming the door.  He doesn’t care if the room he just left is literally full, floor to ceiling, with nothing but towels: he has no intention of opening that door again.  He takes a moment to wonder if he’ll ever be able to look Miss Romanov in the eye again, then shakes his head and moves on down the hall.  

Stark’s house is huge.  He’d seen that from the outside, of course, but somehow it seems even bigger up on the second floor, with its endless hallways full of doors and not one of them, apparently, containing a linen closet.  He wonders what it would be like to live in a house where you couldn’t hear somebody calling to you from one end to the other.  Steve can’t remember the last time he’s been far enough away from his nearest neighbor not to hear them sneeze.

Steve pauses outside the next door, but there’s nothing for it.  He cracks open the door and, squeezing his eyes shut, calls out, “Begging your pardon, but are there any towels in here?”

“Rogers, why are you yelling at my calisthenics room?”

Steve whirls around, his eyes flying open.  “Why am I - your _what_?”

Stark reaches forward and yanks open the door to reveal a carpeted room with weights along the wall and several balls of different sizes lined up on the floor.  “Calisthenics.  Were you expecting something different?”

“You have a whole room just for - just for exercising?” Steve says, peering around.  

“I seem to,” Stark says.  “What are you doing poking around up here, anyway?  Just general nosiness?”

Steve bristles.  “I wasn’t being nosy.  It’s just that a couple of ladies jumped in the pool, and now they’re walking around in just their underthings and I wanted to get them some towels to - ”

“Cap, I’m joking, it’s fine,” Stark says.  “Half the house is full of people making good use of closed doors; if I ever had any privacy, I sure don’t now.  Jarvis!”

A man appears at the end of the hall as if by magic.  “Yes, sir?”

“Can you bring some towels down to the girls by the pool?  Rogers is concerned for their virtue,” Stark says.

“I’m not - ”

“Thanks, Jarvis,” Stark says, and the man disappears again.  “My butler.  Just shout if you need anything, he hides behind corners until you call for him.  You having fun?”

“It’s a swell party,” Steve says.  “What about you?”

“It’s good to air out the house once in a while.  What’s the use of a childhood home if you can’t use it to get your friends drunk once in a while?”

“You were a kid here?”  Steve whistles.  “Nice place to grow up.  I never even _saw_  a swimming pool til a few years ago.”

“It was a little cavernous for just the three of us,” Stark says.  “Well, four if you count Jarvis, which I do.  And the maids, of course.  Plus the governess, well, for as long as they lasted, and the drivers, and the stable boys, and - ”

“I get the picture,” Steve says wryly.  

Stark runs a hand along the bannister.  “I don’t come out here much anymore.  It’s a shame to leave it empty, but - ”  He shrugs.  “Cellar’s a great place to store hooch, anyway.  Oh, hey, I have something for you.”

“For me?” Steve says, surprised.

Stark leads him down the hallway to a set of double doors, then pulls out a key.  “Most of this place’s a free-for-all, but I do keep a couple things behind closed doors.”

Steve hesitates for a moment at the door.  The room’s dark, and he has no idea what could be in there; more than that, he has no idea if he really wants to be alone in a dark, locked room with Tony Stark.  He doesn’t trust the man, and - even worse - he doesn’t trust himself.

“Cap?” Stark says, flipping on the light.  “Come on in, nothing’s gonna explode.  Well.  Probably.”

Steve blinks into the light.  The room is mostly empty but for sun-faded wallpaper, a toy chest, and a few hunks of metal scattered around.  Through the open french doors that lead onto a moonlit balcony, Steve can hear the band playing and the rabble of the increasingly drunk.  “It’s… a nursery?” he says blankly.  

“It was my playroom.  And it still has a few toys.”  Stark leans down and picks up one of the hunks of metal, which shines brighter than anything else in the room.  “Whaddya think?”

Steve takes a step closer.  “What is it?”

“I’ve noticed you don’t really love to hit people until you have to,” Stark says.  “Which is a shame, because boy, when you do, it is _useful_.  But.  If you’d prefer to block, you might as well do it in style.”

“It’s a shield?” Steve says.  

“And it’s all yours,” Stark says, tossing it to him.  The shield is impossibly lightweight, all smooth rounded edges and shining surfaces, and Steve loves it immediately.  “Couple other things here for the rest of the gang - Odinson seems like he’d be into blunt force objects, and Barton could use a holster or four.  Natasha is knives, all knives, like a scary number of knives, but I can’t figure out what Banner wants, what do you think Banner wants?”

“To not have gotten involved with us in the first place?” 

“So a time machine,” Stark muses.  “I’ll keep working on it.  Whaddya think of the shield?”

Steve holds up the shield.  “This is - it’s real nice, but I - I don’t think I can pay for it.”

“Good thing I’m not asking you to,” Stark says.  “First of all, the metal’s literally priceless, so you couldn’t pay for it even if you really wanted to, and second of all, you can think of me as the team’s sponsor, all right?  It’s just the cost of doing business.  And we’re doing some pretty good business, if you ask me.”

Steve runs a hand over the shield.  “You can’t just make us all weapons, Stark.”

“Why not?” Stark says.  “Seriously, explain to me why.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Steve says.  

“Well until you do, you just hang onto that thing,” Stark says.  “I mean, not _actually_ , you can put it down wherever, I’ll have it sent to your place later.  This is a party, I’m really hoping you won’t need it.”

Steve sets the shield back on the floor gently and walks out onto the balcony.  “I don’t know, the crowd’s getting pretty rowdy.”

“True, you might have to fight off a few of those girls,” Stark says, joining him at the railing.  “They won’t want to let you go home alone.”

“I can probably handle them without the shield.”  Steve leans against the railing and gazes out at the party below.  “Why’d you do this, Stark?”

“What, the party?  I throw parties all the time.  Gotta do something with all the booze I’m smuggling into the country - ”

“No,” Steve says.  “I mean - the shield.  The weapons.  Everything with - us.”

Stark blows out a breath.  “It’s not that often I meet people who want some of the same things I do.  Most of the people I know - they’re around because they want something from me.  They like me for what I can do for them.  Gets tired, you know?  It’s kinda nice to be around somebody who actually _dislikes_  me for my money.”

“I don’t dislike you,” Steve says with a wry smile.

“Self-centered much?” Stark says.  “Not everything is about you, Cap.”

“Sure, sure - ”

“But that’s sweet of you to say.   _I don’t dislike you_.  You really know how to warm a fella’s heart.”  Stark knocks his shoulder against Steve’s.  “It’s nice to be on a team for once.”

Steve swallows.  “Listen - ”

“You don’t trust me,” Stark says.  His arm is flush against Steve’s arm, his hand on the railing just a hair’s breadth from Steve’s little finger.  “It’s okay, you can admit it.  You don’t, right?”

“Not - it isn’t - I don’t really trust anybody,” Steve admits.

Stark turns to him with a faint smile.  “I like that,” he says, and then, to Steve’s utter shock, he leans in and kisses Steve.  His lips taste of whiskey.  “I like that a lot, actually.”

Steve surges forward.  He twists the front of Stark’s shirt in his hand, pulling him in until they’re pressed together, chest to chest, and Stark’s tongue is hot in his mouth and Stark’s arm is wrapped around his waist and - 

“Wait,” Steve gasps, yanking himself back.  “Hang on - ”

“Nobody can see us up here,” Stark says.  “But if you’re worried about it, my bedroom is right through there.”  He jerks his head at the second set of french doors leading off the balcony, and Steve’s stomach flips over.  “If you’re interested, that is.”

Steve doesn’t give himself time to think about it: he presses his lips to Stark’s and they stumble backward.  The door opens under Stark’s hands and Steve barely notices the room they fumble their way into, and then Stark is pushing at his jacket, yanking at the sleeves.

“Careful,” Steve says, “it’s my only - ”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Stark says, starting on his buttons as the jacket falls to the fall.  “I’ll buy you ten new ones, god, I’ve wanted to get my hands on you since the first time we met - ”

“I noticed,” Steve says, and gasps as Stark pinches his nipple through his shirt.  “You haven’t exactly been - _oh_  - discreet.”

“I’ve never claimed to be subtle,” Stark says.  He slides a hand down the front of Steve’s flies and grips him through the wool of his slacks, and Steve lets his head fall back with a choked-off groan.  “You don’t seem too angry with me.” 

“Guess I can find a way to forgive you,” Steve breathes.  

Stark grins up at him and catches Steve’s bottom lip between his teeth, then pushes until the back of Steve’s knees hit the bed.  “Bet I can find a way to make you forgive me _loudly_.”

Steve laughs and reaches for Stark’s undershirt, but Stark grabs his wrist.  “That stays on,” he says, and Steve loosens his grip.

“Got it,” he says, because he knows Tony was injured in the war and he knows what that does to men, and when he cups Stark’s cheek, the other man leans forward and kisses him, hard. 

A whole bed is a luxury; Steve’s made do in bathrooms and on blankets on the ground, bachelor studios with single beds pressed against the wall, moving slowly and carefully so the squeaking doesn’t raise any eyebrows the next morning at breakfast.  Steve can hear the party through the open doors but it’s distant now, just the buzz of voices and mosquitoes in the stuffy summertime air.  Stark’s hand works steadily between them, sliding them together roughly, and the heat of him makes Steve bite his lip.

“Don’t have to be quiet,” Stark murmurs in his ear.  “Nobody can hear you, and even if they can, hell, it’s my house - they can think whatever they want.  In fact, I’d _like_  it if they thought we were - ”

“You talk too much,” Steve says, wrapping a hand around Stark’s neck and pulling him closer.  Stark grins against his lips and does something with his tongue that Steve finds _very_  interesting.

“You sure you don’t like it?” Stark murmurs against his lips.  His hips speed up, thrusting forward to meet his hand.  “Cause it seems like you don’t mind my voice one bit.  Kind of seems like you wouldn’t have a problem with me telling you all about how next time, I’m gonna get some slick and open you up nice and slow - ”

“Damn it,” Steve swears, “Stark - ”

And then he comes, his back arching off the bed, and Stark kisses him through it, swallowing his bitten-off moans and never slowing down, until a moment later he’s spending himself across Steve’s stomach, his hips juddering to a stop.

Stark looks up at Steve and grins.  “That was almost as fun as sneaking into a mob command center.”  

“Almost?” Steve says.  

“Okay, slightly more fun,” Stark amends, rolling away.  “I’m gonna go to sleep, you want to go to sleep?”

“Uh,” Steve says, “isn’t the party still - ”

“Jarvis’ll make sure everybody clears out.  Or not.  I don’t really care.”  Stark yawns and tosses an arm over Steve’s chest.  “You can stay.  If you want, I mean.  No pressure.  Jarvis makes great pancakes, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

Steve fights back a yawn of his own.  “I should get back to the city.”

“Whatever you say,” Stark murmurs, burrowing into his pillow, and Steve’s gonna slide out from under his arm and find his clothes and head for the subway in just a moment.

-

When Steve wakes up, Tony is still there.

 _Tony_ , he chides himself, not Stark - how’d that go and happen?  And anyway, it’s not so much that Tony is still there; this is Tony’s bed, after all.  It’s that _Steve_  is still there, and the light shining in through the windows is dawn-colored grey.  It’s morning; Steve’s been there all night.

Steve flops back against the pillows and surveys the room.  It’s spacious, just like everything else in the house, classy and elegant, but also a little… empty.  It doesn’t feel lived in, and it _really_  doesn’t feel like somebody’s childhood bedroom.  Steve wonders what to make of that.

He wonders what to make of Tony at all.  The man’s facing away from him, his back rising and falling gently with sleep.  He hadn’t kicked Steve out; heck, he’d asked him to stay.  He’d talked about _breakfast_.  Steve shakes his head.  It’s all well and good for some fellas, he supposes, the rich and the artists and the people who haven’t signed themselves up to work for the United States of America.  Tony can be reckless if he wants; Tony _is_  reckless, all the time.    

Still.  Tony’s also… if not exactly one of the good guys, maybe not quite one of the bad guys, either.  Steve slides out of bed, careful not to disturb the other man, and follows the trail of clothes back to the french doors.  He opens them gently and steps into the early-morning sunlight.  

The view is even more spectacular than it was at night.  The swimming pool glitters, and the lawn beyond it looks like it’d be real nice if it wasn’t littered with broken glass and left-behind shoes and confetti, and geez louise, when had _confetti_  become part of the night.  Steve can see acres of tree-dotted land in every direction, and in the distance, Long Island Sound.  

“What are you doing putting clothes on?”

Steve smiles as Tony slides his hands around Steve from the back and bats away his hands from doing up his buttons.  “That’s the kind of thing people do in the morning, you know.  Get dressed.”

“Nuh uh, not at my house, I’m very progressive in that way.”

“I can see that,” Steve says.  He turns in Tony’s arms and meets the other man halfway, their lips pressing together a little more hesitantly in the light of day, maybe, but still firm and purposeful, and Steve shivers despite the warm morning.  “I should get going.”

“Or,” Tony says, sliding his hands down to Steve’s ass, “you should get naked.”

“And here I thought you’d be hungover.”

“Me?  Never,” Tony says, pressing a kiss to his jaw, the spot below his ear, his throat.  “I wasn’t that drunk, anyway.  Wouldn’t have been fair, not with you sober as the day you were born.”

“Probably can’t say the same for most of your guests,” Steve murmurs, letting his hands skate down Tony’s sides.  “You sure know how to throw a party.”

“Not too bad at the afterparty either, if I do say so myself,” Tony says, his hand sliding into Steve’s slacks.

“Breakfast, sir?”

Steve jumps back so fast he nearly loses his balance for the first time since the serum.  He spins wildly toward the door; in the bedroom, Tony’s butler stands behind a cart piled high with food and looks completely unconcerned at the fact that he just found his master with his hand down another man’s trousers.

“Not just at the moment, thanks, Jarvis, just leave it on the cart,” Tony says, looking amused.  “Skittish much, Cap?”

“Not used to people walking in while I’m - you know.” 

“Jarvis has seen everything before,” Tony says.  “And then some.”

“I can imagine,” Steve says dryly.  “You must bring a lot of fellas out here, huh?”

“Oh,,” Tony says.  “Sure.  Of course.  Tons.”  

“Right,” Steve says.  He adjusts his trousers carefully and glances back into the room to see that Jarvis has gone.  “Well, I’d better go.”

“If you say so,” Tony says.  He tightens the string of his undershorts.  “Sure you won’t stay for breakfast?  No, I guess not, I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do - Happy can give you a ride home.”

“Oh, no,” Steve says, gripped with mild horror; how many of Tony’s servants know he spent the night?  “No, I’ll take the subway.  It’s fine.”

“Happy’s very discreet,” Tony says.  “He’d have to be, working for me.”

“At any rate,” Steve says, pulling on his jacket.  “Well.  Thanks for - for a fun night.  The party, I mean.  It was great.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tony says, wandering over to his breakfast car and snagging a piece of bacon.  “See you at the Black Widow tonight?”

“Til then,” Steve says, and shuts the door behind him. 

He releases a deep breath in the hallway.  It’s empty, thank goodness, but from around the house he can hear the sounds of people waking up: quiet voices murmuring, throats clearing, water running.  He’s not the only one who spent the night in the mansion, it turns out.  At the bottom of the stairs he spots a young couple wandering out to the backyard with their shoes in their hands, and as he passes through the front parlor he finds Odinson asleep on a massive sofa with his arms around not one but two women.

“Honestly,” Steve mutters.  Their clothes are in a state of disarray, but luckily they’re still on, for the most part; Steve searches around until he finds a blanket in a cupboard and drapes it gently over all three of them before he heads out the door.

“Can I give you a ride, Agent Rogers?”

“You following me, Hogan?” Steve says, turning to Hogan with a wry smile.  

“Not at the moment.”

“I guess I can take comfort in that, at least,” Steve says.  “Could you point me in the direction of the nearest subway station?”

“Well, sure I can,” Hogan says, “but it’ll take you ages to get into the city that way.”  

“That’s okay,” Steve says over his shoulder as he heads down the driveway.  “I could use the time to think.”

-

“And _then_ ,” Odinson says, “Barton felled the one coming up the stairs with a mighty blow!”

“I don’t know if I’d call it _mighty_ ,” Barton says, tipping back his glass of whiskey.  “It was nothin compared to Rogers with that shield.  Did you guys see him hit that goon in the face with it?  His nose is _definitely_  a different shape than it was before.  Everybody did good work.  Even Stark with his stupid exploding bracelet.”

Tony grabs a bottle from behind the bar and dumps what’s left of it into his glass.  “I’ll have you know that my armband’s targeting his improved significantly over the past several weeks.  I had a clean hit tonight, you can’t deny that.”

“Considering you were falling down the stairs at the time, I’m pretty sure that was an accident,” Miss Romanov says.

“That’s neither here nor there.”

Steve leans back in his chair and tunes them out.  He’s pretty sure they can count it a success, all in all: Banner has a black eye, Tony’s wrist is singed from his armband, and Miss Romanov lost her hat in the commotion, but they got nineteen girls out of one of Vanko’s establishments.  Miss Romanov’s got them set up at a ladies boarding house across town, and Tony’s offered them all bus tickets home or jobs in one of Stark Industrial’s typing pools.  

It’s a good feeling; in fact, it’s a better feeling than Steve’s had in a while.  Ever since the war, there’s been work, and searching for Bucky, and looking over his shoulder, and not a whole lot else in between, and now all of a sudden there’s Romanov and Barton and Banner and Odinson and -

\- and Tony, smirking at him over a glass of whiskey.  The gang’s cleared out: Odinson’s serving people down the other end of the bar, Barton’s at the door, and Banner and Romanov have disappeared entirely.  Steve raises an eyebrow at Tony.  “What’re you looking at?”

“I’m taking your measurements.”

“My measurements?”

“I’m thinking about clothes,” Tony says.  “Barton could use something a little more form fitting for when he’s sneaking up on people, and we can’t have you popping a button every time you take a swing, you’ll be out of shirts by next Tuesday.”

“So on top of being an inventor and an industrialist, you’re a tailor now too?”

“It’s not an entirely different set of rules - there are some fabrics these days with tensile strength you wouldn’t believe.  You think Natasha’ll be angry if I guess her dress size?”

“I couldn’t possibly say,” Steve says.  “You could always just _ask_  us, you know.”

Tony pretends to look thoughtful.  “An interesting idea.  I can think of a few other ways to get ahold of _your_  measurements, at least.”  He leans in close and slides a hand along Steve’s inner thigh.  “Like getting you out of your clothes, for example.”

“Stark,” Steve says reproachfully, shifting away.  

“Nobody’s looking,” Tony murmurs in his ear, his hand sliding higher.  “Come on, Cap, loosen up - ”

Steve jumps off his bar stool.  “Walk with me,” he hisses.

Tony grins up at him.  “I thought you’d never ask.”

Steve marches behind the bar and straight into the storeroom.  It’s small and dusty and mostly empty - Natasha doesn’t keep a lot of inventory on hand, for obvious reasons - and Steve’s all ready to give Tony a piece of his mind when Tony grabs him by the front of his jacket, shoves him up against the wall, and kisses him.

It’s nothing like their kiss on the balcony the night before: no hesitation here, just pure need, the adrenaline from the evening’s fight rising in Steve like a wave - a wave he knows will drown him, if he lets it, and by God, how he wants to let it - 

“Wait,” Steve says, grabbing Tony’s shoulders and pushing him away.  “Just - wait.  This’ll never work.”

“I beg to differ,” Tony says.  “It’s tight in here, sure, but shift that barrel over and we’ll have plenty of room, and I don’t mind scuffing up my knees one bit - ”

“I mean _this_ ,” Steve interrupts.  “This whole thing - i won’t work.”

Tony presses his lips together; he looks ready for another fight.  “Why not?”

“Would you prefer the reasons alphabetically or chronologically?” Steve sighs.

“Let’s start with the obvious,” Tony says.  “You think if somebody finds out you sleep with men, you’ll be out of the bureau.”

“We don’t all have the money and the status to convince people to look the other way,” Steve says, and Tony doesn’t try to argue, because it’s true.  “All I’ve got is my career, and if I lose that, I’ll have no way to get to Bucky.”

“It’s not all you have,” Tony says.  

“What?”

“Your career isn’t all you have.  You’ve got us, now.  The team.”

“The team is - look, I’m grateful for it, real grateful, but we both know this isn’t sustainable,” Steve says.  “We’re not - we’re not _vigilantes_ , we can’t just go around kicking down doors and knocking out bad guys.  I know you’ve got this big grand idea that we’re saving the city, but at the end of the day we’re just six people.  We can’t go up against all the criminals in New York.  We’re crazy to be doing as much as we are.”

“Then let’s be crazy,” Tony says, and kisses him again.

Steve groans, half with frustration and half desire, and wrenches himself away.  “ _Tony_.  Even if it wasn’t for the fact that I could lose my job if anybody found out - you and me, it was fun, it was real fun, but it doesn’t make any sense.  You’re - ”

“Too good looking? I know, it’s my cross to bear.”

“You’re _you_ ,” Steve says.

“Ah,” Tony says.  He takes a step back, straightens his jacket.  “Right.   _Me_.  I can see how that’d be a problem.”

“You’re famous,” Steve says, “everybody knows who you are - ”

“And you’re a good little government flunky who doesn’t hang around with war profiteers,” Tony says.  

“That’s not what I - ”

“No, I understand,” Tony says.  “Crystal clear, Cap.  Thanks for a fun night, anyway.”

Steve swallows, adjusts his tie.  “Yeah.  Same to you.”

“Well,” Tony says.  “Guess there’s no point hanging around here when the party’s out there, am I right?  Catch you later.”

“Sure,” Steve says, but Tony’s already gone.

Steve leans back against the wall.  It’s for the best; he’s not _stupid_ , he knows there’s no reason to get caught up in something like that, it’s risky in the best of circumstances and these certainly aren’t the best of circumstances, but - 

“That was fast,” Odinson says, poking his head into the storeroom.  “I thought we’d have a riot on our hands; we’re out of gin up front.”

Steve fights back a blush and hands him a bottle off the nearest shelf.  “It’s not like that.”

“Of course it’s not,” Odinson says, and winks, and Steve follows him back into the bar, that good post-fight feeling disappearing as fast as the gin in the glasses of the Black Widow’s best customers.

-

“You heading back to the office?” Steve says.  

“I think I oughta,” Agent Sitwell says.  “You want to get a cup of coffee first?  There’s a spot I like just around the corner.”

“Sure,” Steve says, following him down the block.  It’s near quitting time, and after a long day of tracking down a money laundering paper trail that _might,_ if they’re real lucky, lead to a minor player in Schmidt’s organization, there’s a lot of paperwork to file.  

 

They’re pretty deep into the Bronx, and Steve doesn’t know the neighborhood at all, so he’s happy to let his fellow agent lead the way; Sitwell walks purposefully, his eyes darting from side to side, and Steve wonders if he thinks somebody might’ve followed them after their last stop.

Steve takes a few long strides to catch up to Sitwell.  “Everything okay?”

  
“Swell,” Sitwell says, walking even faster.  “Just up ahead, now.”

Steve looks back over his shoulder, but there’s nobody behind him, and he’s about to open his mouth to ask Sitwell what the big idea is when Sitwell stops dead in the center of the sidewalk.

“Don’t move,” Sitwell says under his breath as a car pulls up smoothly beside them.  Steve can see his hand resting lightly over his holster.

“What is it?” he asks.

Without looking at him, Sitwell reaches out and opens up the door to the car.

From inside the car, someone says, “Get in, Rogers.”

Steve’s blood turns to ice.  “Director Pierce?” he says, peering into the dark car.  “What’s going on?” 

“You heard him,” Sitwell says, and Steve looks from the car to Sitwell and back again.  Sitwell tightens his grip on his pistol.  “In.”

Steve glances around, then ducks into the car.  Sitwell slams the door behind him, and the tires squeal as the driver pulls away from the curb.

As Steve’s eyes adjust to the dim car interior, he finds himself staring at Alexander Pierce.  “Everything all right, sir?” he says.  

“No, Rogers, it isn’t,” Pierce says.  His voice is just as friendly as ever.  

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Steve says.  

Outside the window, the Bronx rolls by; Steve tries, without much success, to determine exactly how much trouble he’s in.  Finally, Pierce says, “You ever think about balance, son?”

“Balance?”  


“That’s right.  Balance.  Here in the city.  You know what keeps this city balanced?”

Steve considers it.  “The people.  The institutions too, I suppose.  The government, on a good day - ”

“Wrong,” Pierce says flatly.  “It’s me.”

Steve glances at Pierce.  “You, sir?”

“That’s right.  Just me.  Because this city, it’s in a bad way.  Our politicians are either anemic or they’re corrupt.  Our people are lazy and false; they demand abstinence out of one side of their mouths while they pour whiskey in the other.  New York City is the best America has to offer, and it’s _weak_ , Rogers, do you understand me?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“If it weren’t for me,” Pierce says slowly, like he’s explaining to a child, “the darker elements of this city would overwhelm it.  The mobsters and the criminals, the drunks and the whores - they’d take over the whole damn thing.  And we don’t want that, do we?”

“No,” Steve says.  “I suppose we don’t.”

“So that leaves me, making sure that this city isn’t drowned in a muck of its own making,” Pierce says.  “I make sure we don’t tip too far one way or the other.  But keeping that balance - it extracts a price.  There are certain people I’ve needed to bring on board, people who might in the light of day be considered unsavory, but people we need on our side.  It’s better, I’ve found, to keep your enemies close.

“That’s why I’ve brought you here today, son,” Pierce says, and for the first time he turns and looks at Steve head on across the backseat of the car.  “I tried to warn you, but you didn’t get the message.  This balance that I’ve created, it’s delicate, and the other night it was disrupted once again.  And, let me tell you, Mr. Vanko wasn’t very happy.”

Steve glances over his shoulder; as he’d suspected, there’s another automobile right behind them.  “I was under the impression that our mission here at the bureau was to protect the people of the United States.”

“It is,” Pierce says.  “And that’s exactly what I’m doing.  What _you’re_  doing, meanwhile, is destroying the very careful equilibrium I’ve spent years building.  And we can’t have that, son.  That’s not a game you’re going to win no matter who your friends are - who they are, or how many Midtown skyscrapers they’ve built.”

Steve goes very still, just for a moment, and then says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Pierce says smoothly.  “That’s why I’m going to make sure you get an idea, and fast.”  He leans closer to Steve and smiles.  “You may think you’re untouchable because of what the Army did to you, boy, but nobody’s untouchable.  You’re not untouchable, and neither are your friends.  And when I find them - well, you better hope I don’t, let’s just put it that way.”  He pats Steve on the knee and then leans forward.  “Driver?  Just here, if you don’t mind.”

The driver pulls up next to an alley, and the car rolls to a stop.  Behind them, Steve hears the second car pull up to the curb and cut the engine.  

“Agent Rogers, can I trust that we understand each other?” Pierce says.  

“Yes, sir,” Steve says stonily.

“Glad to hear it,” Pierce says.  The door next to Steve opens, and Steve looks out to see Sitwell.  “I hope we don’t have to have another chat again soon.  Oh, and son?”

Steve pauses halfway out of the door.  “Yes?”

“I wouldn’t fight back too hard,” Pierce says.  “These boys work for some of those friends of mine I was mentioning, and some of them have spent some time in the lab, if you know what I mean.  Not to mention, they don’t have any of the same rules dictating their conduct that we’ve got at the bureau.”  He smiles at Steve, and it makes Steve’s stomach curdle.  “Just a little helpful advice.  Take him, Sitwell.”

Sitwell grabs Steve by the arm and pulls him the rest of the way out of the car, and as Steve finds his footing the automobile carrying Pierce speeds away down the empty street.  

“Jasper,” Steve says, turning to Sitwell, “c’mon, you can’t possibly think what Pierce is doing is - ”

“Can it, Rogers,” Sitwell snaps, and three men loom up behind him, taller than Steve and cracking their knuckles.

“Hey, now, fellas,” Steve says, bracing himself, “I’ve got no beef with you, so why don’t we just - ”

And that’s when the first guy takes a swing.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Steve gets back to the office on Monday, somebody’s spread a story around: he got caught up in a brawl and came out the worse for it, and a couple of folks wince sympathetically at his split lip and two blacked eyes but mostly they don’t say a word, because everyone knows he’ll heal up just fine in a coupla days.  Pierce has him reassigned to desk duty indefinitely, and Steve knows it’s a punishment, but it’s got an upside, at least until his broken ribs knit themselves up inside his chest.  

He goes in early to work in the morning and straight home in the evening and catches what sleep he can in between.  He doesn’t even consider going back to the Black Widow until Wednesday, when he arrives home to a note written in Miss Romanov’s neat cursive: _Tonight, 10 pm._   It’s slid under his door, which means that somebody, Barton probably, actually came to his _apartment_ , anybody could have _seen_  him, anybody could have followed him back to them, they could be -

He crumples the note up angrily.  One more visit, and that’ll be that.

He takes a winding route to Midtown, doubling back almost all the way to South Ferry before hopping on the Broadway and Columbus Avenue line as it pulls away, and even still he circles the block a couple times, looking out for a tail he might have missed, before he ducks into the deli and heads down the stairs to the bar.

“Jesus,” Barton says when Steve steps into the light.  “What the hell happened to you?”

From the bar, the others all look up.  “You take on the whole mob without us?” Miss Romanov asks.

“Something like that,” Steve says, taking off his hat and joining them at the bar.  “You should see the other fella.”

“I’d like to,” Tony says.  

“Seriously, Rogers, out with it,” Barton says.  “You disappear for a week and come back looking like you fell face-first into a meat grinder.”

Steve quickly recounts his drive with Pierce and its aftermath, and when he’s done they all look at him expectantly.

“So,” Barton says, “what are we going to do about it?”

“ _We_  aren’t doing anything,” Steve says.  “This has gotten even messier than we thought it would.  I need to keep my head down, just do my job and not give Pierce any reason pay me any attention.”

“What are you saying?” Odinson says.

“I’m saying I’m out,” Steve says.  “And I’d suggest you all get out too.  Alexander Pierce is dangerous.”

“So is this whole city,” Tony says.  “What’s one more bad guy, anyway?  Let him do what he wants.  We can still - ”

“He has the power of the federal bureau of investigation behind him, he’s got every politician in the city in his pocket - ”

“ - do what we’ve been planning to do,” Tony continues, like Steve hasn’t said a word.

“ - and not just the politicians but the mobsters too, Killian and Blonsky and all of them, and they won’t just arrest you and put you out of business, you know they won’t, they’ll - ”

“Look, just admit it,” Tony interrupts.  “Your job is more important to you than we - than our mission is.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to get killed trying to do the impossible,” Steve says, and his voice echoes through the bar.  He looks around at each of them, taking in confusion, their anger, their disappointment, and steels himself, because he knows what he has to do.  “Think about what I said, all right?  It’s been nice knowing you all.  Best of luck out there.”

He picks up his hat and nods at Miss Romanov, who stares coolly back at him, and heads for the door.  “Yeah, you too, pal,” he hears Barton grumble, and he doesn’t look back.

-

“Sorry to bother you, Agent Rogers, but do you have those reports for the judiciary committee ready?”

Steve stifles a yawn.  “It’s no bother, Miss Hill,” he says, rifling through the stacks of paper on his desk.  “I’ve got them for you right here.”

“Thanks,” Miss Hill says gratefully, accepting the pile.  “Burning the midnight oil tonight?”

“And every night,” Steve says.  

Miss Hill nods sympathetically.  “I’ll see you in the morning, Agent.”

“Have a good night,” Steve says, watching idly as she tidies up her desk.  Desk duty: who knew sitting around doing nothing could be so exhausting?  He has no idea how long he’ll be out of the bureau’s good graces, but if he gets another stack of dropped off in the morning, he’ll -  

“Rogers.”

Steve looks up sharply.  “Yes, sir?”

“You’re with me,” Director Pierce says, striding out of his office with several agents, including Sitwell.  “Now.”  

Steve grabs his hat and hurries to follow them.  He glances at Miss Hill on his way out, and she stares back at him, wide-eyed.  

“Where are we going?” Steve asks as he catches up with Pierce.

Pierce glances at him and smiles.  “We’re going on a raid, Agent.  Helping out the boys over in Prohibition unit.  Little place called the Black Widow.  Ever heard of it?”

The boys behind Pierce laugh.  “Sir,” Steve starts, numbly, even though he has no idea what he’s going to say, “they don’t - they have nothing to do with - ”

“So you _have_  heard of it,” Pierce says, and the other agents laugh again.  One of them jabs the barrel of a pistol between Steve’s shoulderblades.  “Don’t even try to run off, son.  This’ll go much worse for your friends if you do.”

The man behind him gives him a shove, and Steve, his heart thudding in his chest, stumbles down the hall after Pierce.

-

“Another round.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow.  “Already?”

“Is that judgment I hear? That’s pretty rich, coming from the mistress of a gin joint,” Stark says.  

“Not judgment,” Natasha says, pouring him another glass.  “Just want to make sure you’re good for it.”

“Very funny.”

“You know I try,” Natasha says.  She studies Stark for a second and then decides to go for the throat.  “You heard from Rogers?”

Stark snorts and picks up his glass.  “Not since he decided to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.”

“His boss had him beat to a pulp.  I wouldn’t exactly call it the first sign of trouble.”

“No, the first sign of trouble was when he showed up,” Stark says.  “We’re better off without him.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Natasha says.  

“Oh yeah?  Well, I am.”  Stark slams his glass down.  “You and Barton still planning a run to Harlem tomorrow night?”

“Long as we have a getaway vehicle.”

“You only love me for my cars.”

“Love is a strong word,” Natasha says.  “I’d say we only _tolerate_  you for your cars.”

“I’ll take it,” Stark says.  “So what do you think - ”

 _Thump thump thump_.

Natasha freezes.  She spins toward Clint, in his usual position by the door, and sees him cock his head toward her.  

Stark glances up.  “Was that the signal for...”

“Sounds like it,” Natasha says.  “Wait for - ”

 _Thump thump_  - 

And that’s when the signal’s cut off by the blast of gunfire.

It’s chaos in the joint: seasoned patrons run for the hidden back exit, Thor urging shocked-looking ladies and too-drunk gents along with the crowd; Clint dives over the bar and grabs the sawed-off shotgun they hide behind the whiskey, and Natasha runs to bar the front door with the heavy oak table they keep nearby for just this purpose.

When Natasha whirls around, her bar is almost empty, except for - “Stark, what the hell are you doing?  Get out of here!”

Stark’s standing in the middle of the room, fiddling with one of his God-forsaken armbands.  “You think I’d leave just when the party’s getting started?”

“I don’t see how that’s a party,” Natasha says, nodding up at the pounding footsteps.

The door behind them slams open again, and Thor tumbles through, Bruce hot on his heels.  “Natasha!” Bruce says, looking stricken.  “You have to - ”

“What are you _doing_?” Natasha says, furious.  “Get the hell out of here!”

“Not without you!” Bruce hisses, grabbing her elbow as Thor hits the light switch and the whole place goes dark.    

Natasha yanks him down until he’s kneeling with the rest of them.  The footsteps have gone slow and quiet.  “They’re here.”

They all scramble behind the bar, holding their breaths.  The Ukrainian couple, God help them, gave them twenty, maybe thirty seconds.  They’ve got enough ammunition back here to keep a standard Prohibition Unit squad busy for a while, and they can buy their patrons time to run for it, give Natasha’s tenants up above (all of whom have some reason or another to run from the law) a chance to grab what they can and scramble away.

And, Natasha thinks wryly, if they’re _real_  lucky, they might even survive.  

“Well,” someone says.  “Looks like we stumbled upon a quiet Friday night.  What a shame.”

Natasha doesn’t have a view around the bar, but she can tell by the footsteps and the air in the room that whoever it is brought a crowd.  She’s surprised: they’re not a mob-run joint, so there’s no reason for the Unit to send more than a clean up crew. 

“But surely there’s still _somebody_  here,” the man says, his voice all feigned surprise.  “I heard the lady who runs this place is a real fighter.  She wouldn’t leave those poor folks upstairs to fend for themselves, would she?”

Natasha licks her lip and looks around. Clint has his finger resting on the trigger of his shotgun.  Thor’s grabbed a hammer from behind the bar, and he looks excited to finally get to use it.  Stark’s got his armband out, but his eyes keep darting toward the back door.  And Bruce is breathing deeply, his gaze locked on Natasha.   _What now?_  his eyes ask, and she shakes her head.

“What do you think, Rogers?  You know her best.”

They all stare at each other, unmoving, because there’s no way - there’s _no way_  -   

“I wouldn’t say that, sir,” Rogers says, his voice clear as a bell in the dim room.  Clint’s face contorts, and Stark rears back so quickly that he almost slams into the wall.  “I just came here looking for a lead - ”

“Stop lying,” the other man says calmly.  “You’re not going to save them with your bullshit, Rogers.  Now tell me: how many do you think she has back there?  I promised a lot of heads to a lot of people, son, and you know I never break a promise.  I don’t, do I?”

It clicks in Natasha’s head.   _Pierce_ , she mouths, and around her their eyes widen.  There’s nobody else Rogers would call _sir_  like that, nobody else who would have brought him here, and if Pierce is here, that means - 

“No, you never do,” Aldrich Killian says lightly, and several other men chuckle.  

“So,” Pierce says, his voice echoing through the bar, “if we know she’s here, and we know the others probably are too, whaddya say we drop all the pretense and have a little chat?  How’s that sound, Miss Romanov?”

Natasha smiles bracingly at the boys - her boys - and nods, just once, at Clint.  “That sounds all right to me, Director,” she says, and stands up.

Her first thought is that if only her joint was always this crowded, she wouldn’t have to keep such careful books.  The room’s full of goons, and front and center is the head goon himself, Aldrich Killian, flanked on one side by a kindly, smiling older gentleman whom Natasha assumes to be Pierce, and on the other by Rogers.  Rogers’ face is a careful blank, and Natasha notes that several of the men have their guns trained on _him_  instead of her.  

“There she is,” Pierce says warmly, like a man greeting a dog.  “Our busy little lady.  You’ve gotten yourself into all _kinds_  of messes lately, haven’t you?”

“I run a bar,” Natasha says.  “I’m used to cleaning up after people.”

Pierce chuckles.  “It was bad enough when you wouldn’t pay your dues, sweetheart, but this business you’ve been up to with Rogers - you had to know that wasn’t going to end well.”

Natasha lifts a shoulder delicately.  “What’s life without a little risk?”

“A girl after my own heart,” Pierce says.  “It’s too bad, really.  You could’ve been a real asset to what we’re doing here.”  He sighs deeply, like he’s personally disappointed that she isn’t interested in being a yes man for the mob.  “But then again, there’s a silver lining to every dark cloud, isn’t there?  You and your friends will make such a good example for all the other bootleggers who aren’t interested in playing nice.”

“Happy to be of service,” Natasha says.

Pierce smiles.  “Now, come out from behind that bar, won’t you, doll?   My good friend Mr. Killian will be taking over your joint starting tomorrow, and he’d prefer to to keep the clean-up to a minimum.”

From behind the bar, Clint racks his shotgun.

“But then again,” Killian says lightly, “we’ve got plenty of practice getting blood out of just about anything, so really it’s up to you.”

Killian’s men laugh, and the one closest to her lifts his tommy gun a little; Natasha can sense Clint and Bruce tensing on either side of her.  

“So here’s a question,” Stark says, popping up from behind the bar.  “You sure you want this place, Aldrich?” 

All eyes swivel toward Stark.  “Mr. Stark,” Pierce says calmly.  “You’ve gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

“I could say the same to you,” Stark says.  He shoves his hands in his pockets and strides out from around the bar.  Natasha sees Rogers’ eyes widen fractionally as the guns follow Stark’s movement.  “I’m serious.  I’ve seen Romanov’s books.  She’s not exactly raking it in.”

“That may be the case, but the price sure is right,” Killian says.  

“What if I took it off your hands?” Stark says.  “I’ll give you 10 g’s.  No clean-up tonight, and I’ll bring the place into line.  Plus 12 percent to you, right off the top, before expenses.”

“We’re not here to make a deal, Stark,” Pierce says.  

“See, the trouble there is, I love deals,” Stark says.  “And I can always put my money where my mouth is.  Twenty thousand dollars.”

“You think this is about _money_?” Pierce spits.  “This is about _order_.  This is about _balance_  - ”

“Everything’s about money in the end,” Stark says.  “How about it, Aldrich?  Make it 25 g’s and 15 percent.”

“Ignore him,” Pierce snaps, and Natasha smiles, because the night’s gotten away from him a little.  Killing some bootlegger dame in an off-the-books raid won’t raise many eyebrows, but Tony Stark turning up dead, now _that’s_  a story that’ll make the papers.

Pierce pulls himself together and smiles blandly.  “Here’s a proposal for _you_ , Stark,” he says.  “We let you walk out of here, and nobody’s the wiser about that missing shipment of Stark Industrial weapons that ended up in Germany in the middle of the war.”

Stark’s smirk flickers for just a moment.  “Funny thing about that is that I reported it myself in 1917.”

“In exchange for a little discretion from the federal government,” Pierce says.  “But files get declassified all the time.  They also get destroyed.  Just thought you might have a preference for which way it goes.”

Stark glances toward the back door, and then his eyes slide over to lock with Natasha’s.  She has a couple different ideas about what he might be thinking, and she’s not sure she likes any of them.  “A compelling point,” he says.  “But I’ve got a counter-proposal for you.”

“I can’t imagine I’ll be interested, but we’re in no rush,” Pierce says indulgently.  “Go on.”

“You ready for it?” Stark says, and throws Natasha a wink.  “Here it is: duck.”

“Duck?” Pierce says blankly, and that’s when Stark pulls his hand out of his pocket, aims at the opposite wall, and fires.

-

It’s like a grenade, Steve thinks as he throws his hands over his face automatically, but the shrapnel doesn’t come, just noise and smoke and a hell of a lot of confusion.  Several men stumble backwards, tripping over chairs and crashing into each other, and someone lets off a volley of bullets.

“Don’t fire at _me_ , you idiots!” Pierce snarls.  “They’re behind the bar, get _them_!”

Smoke hangs heavy in the air, and Steve can guess that everyone else’s ears are still ringing, but his feel fine, which means now’s his chance: he elbows one of his keepers in the gut, then grabs the gun from his hand and swings around to knock the other out with a blow to the temple.  

From behind him, Steve can hear the sounds of other fights breaking out, and he gets low, taking one goon out at the knees and slamming another’s head into the bar.  “Miss Romanov?” 

“Right here,” Natasha says smoothly, appearing out of the smoke at his elbow and slashing at one of Killian’s men with a pocketknife as he lunges at her.  “I’m sincerely hoping you’re not about to tell me this is no place for a lady.”

“I was actually going to ask you if you wanted this gun,” Steve says, holding it out sheepishly.

Natasha gives him a smile.  “You know the way to a girl’s heart, soldier.”

“If you say so,” Steve says, slamming a fist into the man approaching Natasha from behind.  “Everybody else okay?”

“Just dandy,” Barton says from where he’s perched on the bar, taking aim at a mobster’s kneecaps.  “For a minute there I thought we’d have to take you out too, Rogers.”

“Indeed, it would have been most unfortunate if you had chosen the other side,” Odinson rumbles as he grapples with one of Blonsky’s big men.  

Steve twists one of the goon’s arm behind his back until he gives, then throws him into a nearby table.  “Don’t forgive me just yet, fellas.  I’m afraid I may have led them here.”

“It was only a matter of time,” Natasha says, kicking one of the nearest fighters between the legs so hard that Steve winces. 

The smoke is getting thinner, and Steve can see that they’re in trouble.  Their group is all strong fighters, but Killian and Pierce have more men, and while they’re not using their guns yet for fear of striking their bosses in the smoky room, Steve knows they don’t have long until the goons decide it’s worth the risk.

“Where’s Stark?” Steve says.  “We could use another one of those smoke grenades right about now.”

“He went out the back door,” Barton says, hands steady as he squeezes the trigger.  

Steve’s disappointed, and relieved too, all at once, and he shoves it all down by throwing himself into the middle of two of Killian’s men.  It’s a pretty bad plan and it shows: one of them lunges at him and gets a grip around Steve’s neck, and the other pulls out a pistol and aims it right at his face.

There’s a roar, and before Steve can blink Banner’s ripped the pistol from the man’s hands and thrown it across the room.  “Don’t even _think_  about it,” he snarls, and punches the man in the face so hard that he sways and then falls, with a _thump_ , onto his back.  

“Thanks, pal,” Steve says, clapping Banner on the shoulder.  

Banner looks at him through narrowed black eyes and then turns around to grab a fella sneaking up on Barton from behind and slam him into the wall.  It’s always the quiet ones, Steve thinks as he turns back to his own fight.  

There’s a sudden explosion of gunfire, and Steve rolls under a table as bullets hit the wall behind him.  “Give it up, Rogers,” Pierce says from across the smoky room.  “It’s just like Stark to save his own skin when it comes down to it, so I can’t say I’m surprised, but I thought _you_  were smarter than this.”

Steve crawls forward, edging toward a dropped pistol and trying to sort out which feet belong to Pierce.  “I don’t see what’s smart about going into business with criminals.”

“You might not now, but you will soon,” Pierce says.  “If you know what’s good for you.  We usually hang traitors in this country, but if you ask nicely I might be able to get you a deal.”

And that’s when Tony says, “I thought you said you weren’t interested in a bargain?” 

With a thunk and a crash and a metallic screech, a clockwork man walks into the room from behind the bar.  

“What the hell is that?” Aldrich Killian says.

From within the clockwork man, Tony says, “My final offer.”

And then he lifts his arms and shoots a burst of fire from each of his hands.

It’s pandemonium.  The men in the room are ready to kill for their bosses but if it’s all the same they’d rather not die for them, and they’ve never seen anything like a man made of metal who can light fires with his hands, a man who bullets bounce off as they empty their chambers in his direction.  Even Steve has to admit it’s startling, and he’s seen the clockwork man before and guessed its use; to someone with fresh eyes, it must look like a monster straight out of a nightmare, all shining tin and flashing fire and dark, soulless eyes.  

Several people, including Killian, scramble toward the exit, and Tony shoots off several rounds in their direction; a few others turn back to their opponents, but now that their numbers are smaller, the team - Steve’s team - can go on the offensive rather than just trying to stay alive, and before long they’re going down like flies, Natasha taking one with a knife to the shoulder and Barton shooting a gun right out of another’s hands.  Thor and Banner together take down one of the big men, and as he slumps to the floor Steve takes stock of the room, wondering how much firepower Tony can possibly have in that thing, where Barton is on bullets, how much time they have until - 

“Don’t move,” Pierce says, and as Steve whirls around he sees Pierce just a few steps away, tommy gun aimed right at his chest.  “I mean it, Rogers.  You move, you’re dead.  If _any_  of you move, he’s dead.  Be a shame for one of my agents to get caught on the wrong side of a bust, but the bureau can weather the storm.  I won’t hesitate.”

“You picked the wrong side in all of this,” Steve says.  “The city may be sick, but you’re what’s making it sicker.  We won’t let you get away with it.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Pierce says.  “That’s the beautiful thing about America.  We’re all entitled to our opinions.”  He tilts his head and smiles, and Steve tenses, because there’s no cover nearby, and anyway Natasha and Clint are behind him, easy targets even if he gets out of the way.  “And we’re entitled to change them, too.  In fact, I think I might just change my own. Here’s an idea.  Agent Rogers turns in a quiet resignation, my friend Killian has one extra body to get rid of, and the bureau stays out of it.  It’s all a lot cleaner that way, isn’t it?”  He shakes his head and hefts his gun higher.  “What a waste.”

Steve hears it before he sees it: a blast louder than a bullet, louder even than the smoke grenade, and before he can move there’s a hole in Pierce’s chest the size of a fist and he’s falling, limp as a rag doll, the tommy gun clattering to the floor.

It’s all heat and noise and chaos, like a bomb went off in the center of the room, and even Steve is rattled enough that it takes half a second before he realizes that the force of the shot, which came out of one of the clockwork man’s arms, blew Tony across the room and straight through the back wall.  Through the smoke, Steve can just see the clockwork man lying in the rubble, perfectly still.

“Jesus,” Barton says, sounding stunned, and the few goons who can still move of their own accord stumble to the stairs to escape.  Steve doesn’t even care: he crashes across the room, the blast still echoing in his ears, and falls to his knees beside Tony.

“Tony,” he says, leaning down to try to see through the eye holes of the clockwork man, but it’s dark inside.  “Tony!  Can you hear me?”

“How do we get him out of it?” Natasha says, kneeling on Tony’s other side.

“I don’t know,” Steve says.  “I don’t know how it works - ”

“If it’s impaled him somewhere, removing it could kill him,” Banner warns from over Steve’s shoulder.

All it once it’s too much like being in the trenches but not enough like it either, because there Steve knew what to do, and right now he doesn’t know what to do at all.  “Tony, if you can hear me, I’m sorry, but we have to get you out,” he grits out, and then he reaches down, grabs the facemask and yanks as hard as he can.

The metal shears off with a screech, and then it’s just Tony’s face, pale and drawn with blood seeping out of a cut from over his eye, and Steve hasn’t lost a soldier in a while and this one - this one - 

“Stark!” Banner snaps, loud enough that everyone jumps, and Tony’s eyes fly open.

“Whoa,” he says.  He looks around at all of them and then grins weakly up at Steve.  “I hope somebody kissed me.”

“Idiot,” Barton says, and Steve doesn’t want to give Tony the satisfaction but he can’t help it, he laughs anyway.   

EPILOGUE

“Well, I love what you’ve done with the place,” Steve says.

Natasha snorts.  “It’s seen better days.”

“I was actually expecting it to be worse,” Steve says.  “It barely even looks like it was condemned by the city just last week.”

“ _Almost_  condemned,” Barton reminds him.

“Condemned before you bribed them,” Odinson chimes in.

“Again,” Barton says, turning to him, “in America we don’t say _bribe_ , we say _campaign donation_.”

“There’s still a lot of work left,” Natasha says.  “But I think we’ll be open in a couple of weeks.”

Steve grins.  “It’s amazing what a little paint and brickwork can do.”

“Not to mention a friend with deep pockets and a couple of engineering degrees,” Natasha says. 

“Considering it was his shell launcher that nearly blew up the whole place, I’d say he owes it to you,” Steve says.

“I’m sorry, considering it was my shell launcher that saved all of your lives, you mean?” Tony says, sauntering out from the back room with Banner.  “Yeah, let me just pile on the apologies for the property damage, you have my deepest sympathies - by the way, Romanov, since we have to, you know, re-build the walls anyway back here, you want to put in a toilet?  Indoor plumbing’s the cat’s pajamas.”

“You pay for it, I’m happy to use it, Stark,” Barton says with a smirk.

Tony pulls a bottle of bourbon out from behind the bar - he must have brought it from home, considering almost every bottle in the place shattered when his bomb went off - and pours a healthy glass.  “Well, hey, if it’s gonna be a bar again, I’m just saying, the alley’s fine and all but this could be a classy establishment - ”

“What do you mean, _if_  it’s going to be a bar again?” Steve interrupts.  

“That’s up to Miss Romanov, of course,” Tony says, sliding the glass across the bar to her.  “It’s her joint, after all.  You want to stay in the game?”

“I think I might,” Natasha says.  “Especially since no one’s come to tell me I can’t.”

“Yeah, what’s that about?” Clint says, pouring his own glass of liquor from Tony’s supply.  “Those guv’mint guys who showed up didn’t seem real interested in questioning any of us, did they?  Just took the bodies and disappeared real fast.”

“I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Steve says.  “And nobody’s said a word at the bureau - they told the office that Pierce decided to retire, and he was replaced the next day with some guy outta Washington.  A couple of the other fellas disappeared too, including Sitwell - the official word is they’ve been transferred, but some of the other agents are suspicious.”

“Maybe we just got lucky,” Banner says doubtfully.  

“Or maybe,” says a voice from the staircase, “you had somebody else in your corner.”

They all spin toward the staircase to see a man in a dark suit step through the doorway.  Steve steps forward automatically, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Barton reaching under the bar and Natasha’s hand sliding to her waist - but then someone else steps through the door and Steve freezes.

“Miss Hill?” he says blankly.

“Evening, Agent Rogers,” Miss Hill says politely.

“Uh,” Barton says, “who the hell are you?”

“This is... my department’s secretary,” Steve says.  “And you are - ”

“Agent Phil Coulson,” the man says.  “I know who all of you are.  It’s a pleasure.”

“I’m not sure we can return the sentiment,” Tony says, setting down his glass with a solid _clink_.  “The joint’s closed tonight.”

Coulson looks around blandly.  “I can see that,” he says.  “I’m not here for a drink.  I’m here to talk about your future.”

“Our future?” Banner says.

“What happened here last week was… unfortunate,” Coulson says.  “We’d known for months that there was a double agent inside the bureau, but nobody had fingered Pierce.  If word got out that a high-ranking member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was the head of an organized crime coalition, the entire law enforcement community would suffer.  It could set us back years in our efforts to bring the criminal element of New York under control.”

“So you’re here to buy our silence,” Steve says.  

“Oh, I’m not planning to buy it,” Coulson says.  “I’m planning to hire it.”

“‘Scuse me?” Barton says.  “No offense, pal, but you’ll have to forgive us if we aren’t interested in working for the feds.”

“I’m not part of the bureau,” Coulson says.  “We’re called the Strategic Science Reserve.  We’re an… independent organization.”

“How independent?” Tony asks.

“Enough that even you’d be welcome, Mr. Stark,” Coulson says, and Tony snorts.  “We’d like to ask all of you to maintain your discretion about Pierce and the other agents who were involved in last week’s incident.  In exchange, we’ll agree to look the other way about any low-level illegal activity going on in the building, and we hope that we can look forward to a further partnership with all of you.”

“You may have heard that I’m not really one for partnership,” Natasha says.

“Understandable,” Coulson says.  “But we happen to know a little about what the six of you have been getting up to in your off hours, and we have a feeling you might be interested in the support we can provide.”

“Support?” Odinson asks.

“We have operations of our own throughout the city,” Coulson says.  “Intelligence agents who handle all kinds of criminal enterprises.  And we can always use people with your… particular skills.”

They all glance at each other.  “We’ll have to think about it,” Natasha says finally.

“Reasonable,” Coulson says.  

“And, uh, what does Miss Hill have to do with all this?” Steve says.

“Agent Hill is the one who tipped us off to the events of last weekend,” Coulson said.  “She’s the reason we were able to be first on the scene and head off an investigation.  I have a few people on the inside at several federal agencies.”  He raises his eyebrows at Steve.  “And if you’re interested, I’d like to have one more.”

“Don’t worry, Agent Rogers, you won’t report to me,” Miss Hill says with a wink.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Steve says sheepishly, thinking about how he’d asked Miss Hill to get his coffee just this morning.  “Well, I don’t see that I have much of a choice, but I think I’m in.”

“You always have a choice, Agent Rogers,” Coulson says.  “But from what I can tell, you tend to make the right ones.”  He tips his hat at Natasha and heads for the door.  “I’ll be in touch.  Good luck with the repairs.”

“Thanks,” Barton calls after him.  

Tony whirls on Steve.  “Your _secretary_?” 

“Hey, now,” Banner says, “I think we can all agree that a woman is just as capable of - ”

“Uh, yeah, I’m aware, my secretary runs my entire business,” Tony says, rolling his eyes.  “I’m talking about Rogers here failing to notice that his own secretary wasn’t actually working for his organization.  You’re a helluva cop, Rogers.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“That’s a technicality.”  

“So whaddya say, Nat?” Barton says.  “We working for this Coulson guy?”

Natasha presses her lips together.  “He didn’t make it a condition of keeping the Black Widow open, which makes me more inclined to give it a shot.  And it wouldn’t be so bad to have a little extra intel before our next run at Blonsky and Killian’s organizations.”  She glances at Steve.  “He might be able to help you find your friend.”

“It does sound like they do the kind of work we’ve been wanting to do,” Steve admits.

“With the power of this scarily competent Strategic Science Reserve behind us, we might be able to make some real changes around here,” Tony says.  “Not that I’d ever work for anyone but myself, but if _you’re_  all working for them, I’m happy to come along for the ride.  You know, as a consultant.”

“Coulson seemed like someone we could trust,” Odinson proclaims.  “And I have an eye for it.  I had you made in under a minute, if you’ll recall, Rogers.”

“Oh, I do,” Steve says.  “Vividly.”

“He did mean all of us, you think?” Banner says hesitantly.  “I just - if they knew my background - ”

“They know,” Natasha says firmly.  “He seems like the type who does his research.  They want _all_  of us.”

Banner shakes his head.  “I guess I’m in, then.”

Everyone looks at Barton expectantly.  “What?” he says finally, staring around blankly.  “I go where Nat goes.”

Tony rolls his eyes and pours another couple of glasses for the rest of them.  “To new beginnings,” he says, and when he slides his hand up Steve’s thigh under the bar Steve leans in closer.

“To new bosses,” Steve says, shooting Tony a grin as he lifts his glass, and Tony grins back.

“To new customers,” Odison rumbles.

“To the Black Widow,” Banner says.

“To the team,” Natasha says, lifting her own glass.

“To getting a fucking bathroom in this place!” Barton yells, and with a laugh, they all clink their glasses.


End file.
